


what's love got to do, got to do with it?

by carrionkid



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends With Benefits, M/M, crashing a wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid
Summary: a fake dating fic, in that they are fake people and real dating. sometimes you just have to work with someone else despite every other inclination driving towards you working alone. sometimes those situations include going to a wedding to kill one or more people. title is from the tina turner song.--They work well together and even if he gets too ballsy, tries to outshine him, Bullseye can knock him down a peg, put him out of commission, and he’ll get right back up in a week or two. And Wade’s funny, makes him laugh, which isnew.Which is why he’s the first, probably only, person Bullseye’s willing to go to withthis.
Relationships: Lester | Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Wade Wilson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

He’s got a pretty sizeable list of people he  _ tolerates.  _ Got their numbers all filed away in his head because it sure as shit seems like the only thing that ever sticks in his mind is information.

  1. A good handful of colleagues, but the only ones that make the list are below him enough that he wouldn’t immediately brain them if it meant the difference between being the best and being runner up. 
  2. Some connections, some contacts, ones to help him fence things, hook him up with firepower when he needs it, get him any kind of information needed to get a job done. 



Beyond that: 

  1. His agent, so long as it’s a good day.
  2. Most of his employers, as long as he’s on the clock, but there _have_ been a couple that didn’t last through the payout for one reason or another.   
(There’s a joke or two in the oxymoron of “impatient sniper,” but he’d never let you make it through the punch-line.)
  3. Most of the people he manages to brush shoulders with, day to day, if only because the idea of _living,_ of getting up and going to some mindless office job, of a goddamn nuclear family, is pretty novel.



It’s not that impressive of a list and he’s really cheating with the last category, but he doesn’t really need all that much to keep himself afloat. He’s made out just fine all on his lonesome for two damn decades, at least.

Now, the list of people he likes? That’s a different story.

  1. Wade W. Wilson



Doesn’t even count as a fucking list. Just one merc with a name so perfectly alliterative he was downright convinced it had to be a fake. And yeah, he’s  _ neurotic  _ about things, so he went digging, like anyone would, and sure enough, it was legit. 

(Okay, so maybe he has a  _ type.  _ Not that he’d ever admit it.)

The honesty was a bit of a surprise. Well, a whole hell of a lot of a surprise. Figures Wilson’s either an idiot or a genius and it’s damn hard to tell when nothing anyone could ever do to him will stick.

They work well together and even if he gets too ballsy, tries to outshine him, Bullseye can knock him down a peg, put him out of commission, and he’ll get right back up in a week or two. And Wade’s  _ funny _ , makes him laugh, which is  _ new. _

Which is why he’s the first, probably only, person Bullseye’s willing to go to with  _ this. _

Figuring out where he’s crashing these days was  _ easy.  _ Probably could’ve done it without tracking down all his safe-houses in the city and how often he frequents them, but he likes to have a pattern to fall back on.

Still, just to be sure, he spent a day or so watching the place. Wasn’t trying to work up the nerve, no, not at all. Just trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he’s asking someone to  _ help. _

And, well, he’s running out of time, so it’s now or never. No use standing on the fire escape like a fucking creep all night, someone might spot him and call the cops.

So he jimmies open the lock on the window, slips right in, keeps his steps nice and light. Yeah, he’s long distance--it’s kind of his specialty, well, one of them--but that doesn’t mean he’s some kind of incompetent jackass who doesn’t know how to break into a place.

He’s good at it, too. Still makes some cash on the side from burglaries.

But it doesn’t really matter how good he is or isn’t, because the window behind him shatters and he turns back to watch the glass fall to the fire escape, but that’s a stupid, stupid move, leaves his back exposed, so he faces back towards the room, trying to piece together what’s out there in the grainy darkness.

Nothing’s really all that important other than the vague impression of someone standing on the other side of the room. Hasn’t sealed the deal yet, which kind of sets his teeth on edge. He’s fucked up twice already, by giving such an easy target and by not just  _ retaliating. _

There’s blood starting a slow crawl down the inside of his sleeve, more of an annoyance than anything, and he stretches out his arms, making himself bigger, “You  _ missed _ , asshole.”

“Bullseye?” It’s fucking Wilson, of course, “What the  _ fuck  _ is wrong with you?”

And then he hears the click of a safety catch, which means Wade’s got a gun (of course, that should’ve been obvious when he got  _ shot at _ ) and he’s also probably got a silencer (since Bullseye can currently hear well enough to carry on a conversation).

Wade flicks the lights on after that. Always wears his own damn merch, even down to the pajama pants he’s currently wearing, and it’d really be annoying if it was anyone else. It’s downright pathetic how many free passes Wilson gets for annoying shit.

And there’s really no use in posturing anymore, so he clamps his palm against the graze on his bicep. It’d hurt more if he’d  _ actually  _ been shot, knows that well enough, but he’s really more out of it than he should be. The pain is kind of there, just at the edges of his thoughts.

“Come  _ onnnn _ , is that any way to greet a guy?”

“Jesus fuck, dude, it’s the twenty-first century, send a fucking courtesy text! Like, shit, just a  _ ‘u up?’ _ would be enough! It really isn’t that hard to  _ not  _ break into someone’s apartment! I  _ don’t  _ break into people’s apartments all the time!”

“Oh, don’t be like  _ that,”  _ he rolls his eyes, “I was gonna make you breakfast.”

“Ah yes,” Wade throws his arms up in the air, gesturing grandly, gun in hand, “We all know everyone wants breakfast in bed, handmade with love by an armed intruder!”

“I’m not armed. I packed light.”

“You’re  _ always  _ armed. That’s, like, your whole tagline. Anything in your hands is a deadly weapon and so on and so on.”

He gives this wild, half smile, “Well, a boy’s gotta have a few tricks up his sleeve.”

“What if I’d actually shot you? Huh?” Wade drops his voice down, means he’s getting serious and really, no one likes that, “You’re practically  _ normal.  _ What if I fucking killed you?”

“Then I’d be dead,” he lets go of his arm long enough to shrug, “Wouldn’t matter much to me.”

Wade drops the gun to the floor, gasps with both palms pressed to his cheeks, “Oh my god, I  _ did  _ shoot you!”

“You  _ grazed  _ me. Your aim is shit.”

“It’s not my fault I like to keep people alive long enough to question them,” Wade damn near pouts, crossing his arms.

“Then you’re stupid.”

That’s enough to push Wilson over the edge to full on actually pouting, but knowing him, it’s just part of some  _ bit.  _ It’s always one thing or another with Wade, but honestly, it’s growing on him. Just a little.

Wade straightens up, going back to normal, “C’mon, I’ve got some bandages in the bathroom for situations like this. Y’know, guest bandages, completely normal things to have in a fully furnished apartment.”

Bullseye sighs and gives in, following Wade off to his bathroom. It’s better to get it all over with instead of letting Wilson bug him about it for the next five hours.

The bathroom is really cramped at best and he ends up sitting cross-legged on the counter ‘cos that’s the only way the both of them will actually fit in there. Then, he pulls his shirt off, setting it down next to him while Wade digs through the cabinets.

He ends up with his elbow propped against his knee, cheek propped against his hand, head cocked to the side so he can watch Wilson digging through his things. Wade sets the bandages up on the counter before getting up.

Then, Wade laughs, mouth hidden behind his hand.

“What are you laughin’ at?” He wrinkles his nose, scowls.

“You always do this! It’s like you have some deep-seated hatred of chairs!”

He just rolls his eyes, “You gonna laugh at me all night or are you gonna fix me up?”

“ _ Someone’s _ in a bad mood,” Wade smiles, but he stops waiting around, starts the water running in the sink.

It’s one of the rare moments when Wilson is actually quiet, wetting a washcloth and dabbing at his arm and it’s not like he’s so useless he can’t do this himself, but it’s kind of nice. Kind of nice to have Wade holding his arm, forceful and gentle all at once, kind of nice to let him wrap the wound with gauze.

“Well isn’t this homoerotic,” Wade keeps his voice low as he works.

“Fuck off.”

“This is my house, dude, you can’t tell me to fuck off.”

Wade finishes up, sticks some god awful tacky bandaid on the gauze in lieu of medical tape. Bullseye pulls his shirt back on after that, but for some reason, he just stays up on the counter. Feels like something’s about to happen and there’s a good chance he’ll hate it.

“You really look like shit, B,” Wade says, still kind of soft about it, real out of place, “Whatever morgue assistant did your makeup should be fired. Maybe even executed for crimes against humanity.”

Five days ago, he got cold-cocked by an unhappy client who didn’t realize that hiring an assassin meant there’d be a  _ body  _ and you oughta hire someone else if you just want someone intimidated. And then a day ago, well, two days ago by now, he met with a client and it was a high end enough of an offer that he couldn’t exactly show up with two black eyes. 

Busted teeth? That’d be passable, but bruises tend to make an impression. And the concealer looked just  _ fine  _ two days back when he put it on.

Wade rinses out the washcloth and rests his hand against Bullseye’s chin, tipping his head back. Just lets it happen, too, which means a whole hell of a lot because he’s killed people for less. He shuts his eyes and lets Wade clean off his face.

Stays with his eyes closed even after Wade sets the cloth down, right up until Wilson whispers, “ _ Holy shit.” _

He jerks away after that, glaring right at Wade, “Well it’s not like anyone’s hiring either of us for our looks.”

"Well, at least I don't look like the poster child for a battered women's shelter."

That manages to worm its way under his skin, makes him shudder like someone's walked over his grave. Almost hauls off and decks Wilson, but he still needs his  _ help. _

"Shit, sorry, that was a bad joke."

“No fucking shit.”

“My brain to mouth filter is just,” he mimes out an explosion with both hands, “Busted. But I promise I'm  _ allowed  _ to make that joke.”

Bullseye sets his jaw, grinding his teeth together, "It's  _ fine." _

"No, really," Wilson gets all serious again, almost worse than the off color excuses, "It wasn't funny. And I've never seen you get all weird like that if you weren't about to go all fucking Kristy Swanson in Deadly Friend and pulverize some poor old lady’s skull with a basketball.”

If he's being honest, and he rarely is, he's more pissed off about the fact that he  _ reacted _ than the joke. Showed his whole damn hand to Wilson, who's got a big fucking mouth and it'll probably be talk of the town by the end of the week.

"I forget not everyone deals with it by joking," Wade says, sounding real soft and gentle for once, "Are you okay? Right now and in general, are you okay?"

He wants to run, wants to reconsider asking for help entirely and just get the fuck out of there because somehow, sitting on Wilson's countertop as he rests a hand against his knee and cleans two day old concealer off his face is more intimate than any of the times they've fucked.

But he stays there, heart beating out of his chest, "I'm good. It was an unhappy client a few days back and you  _ know  _ I bruise easy. And I don't need you  _ worryin'  _ about me."

"Too bad! That's what friends  _ do _ !"

He hates how much the term makes him want to squirm but they  _ are  _ friends. Wouldn't let anyone else on earth do this for him. Not a single soul.

"Jeezus, you're going soft, Wilson."

Wade slugs him in the arm, soft enough it's clear it's just a joke, "You're the one that was gonna make me breakfast in bed, dude. That's, like, rom-com activity right there."

"That was just to bribe you."

"Bribe me for what?" Wade asks, eyebrow raised, "Cos I'm pretty sure there's easier ways to negotiate a hook-up and you aren't exactly the 'let's have a slumber party and gossip about boooooyyyys' type, B."

"I'm not here to get  _ laid." _

"I kind of guessed that. We'd be making out by now if you were," Wilson laughs, "But we can talk about why you're here in the morning and if you still wanna  _ bribe _ me, I've got a fully stocked pantry in this joint."

And he finishes off the sentence by taking Bullseye's hand and squeezing, oh so very gently. Makes him cock his head to the side and kind of study Wilson, because it sure as shit seems like…

"You want me to come to bed  _ with  _ you?" He squints, trying to puzzle it all out.

"Just to sleep," Wade nods, "You look like you could use it."

* * *

He's in Wade's bed and it's  _ tight.  _ Really only meant for one but he's awful good at worming his way into small spaces. Only hard part is that they're trying not to touch. Not gonna say it, though.

So he's lying on his side and Wade's on his stomach and they're as close as can be without crossing that last line. Oughta sleep but it's been hard, past couple of days.

Wilson's already out cold and Bullseye's just staring at him like a fucking creep. Worst of all, he's getting all soft, watching Wade drooling onto his pillow, eyes flickering back and forth under his eyelids. Like he's relaxed, like he feels  _ safe  _ right now. Doesn't matter that there's a killer lying right next to him, not that either of them are innocent.

Things are kind of hazy and warm, even through the ache of his arm. Makes him feel good, might even be able to relax.

And he's so spaced out, just kind of reaches over, running his fingers over the curve of Wilson's skull. Just wants to make sure this is all real, the smooth ridges of scar tissue, the rise and fall of his chest.

Wade laughs a little bit, still seems like he's asleep even when he reaches up and takes Bullseye's hand. Almost pulls away, wouldn't usually stand for this, but then Wilson guides his hand along until it's resting under his cheek.

Makes Bullseye's stomach do little flips, feeling the heat of Wade's skin, the soft rhythm of inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale on and on against the back of his palm.

He inches in just a little bit closer, doesn't want to finally wake Wade up and make them all think about this. Rests his forehead against Wilson's, watching the slight twitch of his lips.

Doesn't ever make it to sleep, brain won't cooperate long enough to let him nod off. But he spends stretches of time with his eyes closed, tracking the progression as Wade gets closer and closer until Bullseye's all nestled into his arms.

When it gets to be too much, he stretches out and yawns, just for show. Wilson wraps his hands around Bullseye's waist, catches the sliver of skin where his shirt rode up, hot and cold all at once, almost electric.

"Let go of me," he worms his way out of the hug, "I'm making breakfast."

"Fuck yes, babe you're fantastic," Wade slurs, still probably half asleep.

Maybe,  _ maybe,  _ they're at this point. Usually after a couple of years, after this many nights spent together, it means something or another.

He's not so sure he wants it to mean anything at all. Raises the stakes too high.

So he just makes a noise of confirmation and slips out of the bed, even when Wade's half trying to drag him back by his side.

* * *

He gets lost in the monotony of making pancakes, figures out the kitchen pretty quick ‘cos even if he’s never been here before, Wade’s got an order to things. Might look like chaos to anyone else, even Wade himself, but he understands it.

Isn't half bad at cooking, either, once he gets into a rhythm. Pours the batter, waits to flip it, plates it when it's done. Helps him think when he's got something to keep him busy, and  _ fuck _ , does he have a lot to think about now.

He's not too sure he even wants to go through with asking Wilson to help him now. Not after sleeping in the same bed and Wade calling him babe and being forced to consider that maybe something's changed after a couple years of one night stands.

And he's not angry, really isn't. He's a little bit scared, which is a hell of a lot to admit.

He could leave before Wade gets up, but then the fucker would come looking for him, assuming the worst. Plus, he really does  _ need _ a second body for this job.

So he just keeps making fucking pancakes.

Until Wade wanders into the kitchen and bursts out laughing, head thrown back, "Holy shit, dude, this is depressing, you look like fucking  _ Matilda  _ got past the child lock on the Adderall bottle when you're unsupervised in a kitchen. Do you think we've got enough pancakes? I'm pretty sure we don't have enough yet."

He might've gotten carried away. Didn't realize they were taking up most of the counter space, stacked perfectly on whatever clean plates Wilson had.

"I hate you," he says, flatly, "We aren't friends anymore."

"Aww, Bullseye, you know what friendship is?" Wade rests a hand over his heart, sighing softly, "Wait, wait a minute. Did you use the whole goddamn box? Dude, I think your brain is wired backwards."

“Do you want some  _ fucking _ pancakes or not?”

He isn’t really in that bad of a mood, but he hates it when people point out whatever fucked up thing he’s doing this time.

“Dude, you’re, like, trying to feed the whole fucking building. Have you had a change of heart? Are you good now? Is this your overly pancake-filled redemption arc?”

He flips another one onto the latest stack, not bothering to look at Wilson, “Maybe I’m just  _ hungry _ .”

That gets Wade laughing, so wholly and completely that he can’t help but ease up a bit. Makes him kinda relax, like this is all fine, all just jokes between  _ friends.  _ 'Cos that's what they are, aren't they? Friends with benefits still has  _ friends  _ in the title.

* * *

He's not too sure if Wilson's serious about the whole 'feeding the entire apartment building' thing, but he does cover up all the extra pancakes and put them in the fridge before sitting down to join him at the table. Hasn't even finished his own food yet, just keeps picking away at it with a dedicated intensity.

Food isn't always easy for him. 

Spent too much time with too little of it and now that he's got enough he doesn't want to get all that used to it on the off chance it gets taken away again. Might be able to write it off as some leftover shit he hasn't processed that's still fucking with him, but he knows damn well it isn't an  _ irrational _ fear.

And that just gets him caught in a loop, thinking and thinking and slowly getting more twisted up inside and thinking some more. He's so fucking mindless he just acts on instinct, opening his mouth unprompted for the forkful of pancake Wade's shoving in his face.

"Oh my  _ God _ ," Wade snorts and bangs his fist against the table, bringing Bullseye back to the moment, "I didn't think that would  _ work.  _ That was adorable, holy shit."

Normally, he'd just put the fork in someone's brain for a comment like that, but all he can do is grit his teeth and furiously try to stop the flush spreading across his cheeks.

Wilson starts gearing up for round two, just makes him snap, "I don't  _ need  _ you to feed me."

"Okay, okay," Wade shoves the forkful of pancake into his own mouth, talking around it, "That was a weird line to cross. But you were  _ so  _ zoned out and you always look so cute when you're thinking, which is weird, you wouldn't think a professional killer like you would be cute but you  _ are  _ sometimes."

It's strange. He doesn't  _ want  _ to be mad at Wade. Sure as shit hates that he's  _ blushing  _ right now, like some kinda school girl, but he's got this terrible butterfly feeling in his stomach and everything feels kind of warm and good. Won't ever admit it, though.

"Can we just kiss and make up?"

"I'm not gonna kiss you, Wade."

"It's an expression. And you've never had problems with doing that  _ before, _ " Wade blows him a little kiss punctuated with a wink.

He bends over his pancakes, trying to hide his face so Wade won't pick up on anything else on his mind.

And, well, Wilson can't ever seem to shut up, but he gets it, he understands going crazy when it's silent, so he's expecting it when Wade says, "I know this wasn't a social call, B. What's happening? 'Cos I know a teamup event when I'm being written into one and you  _ never  _ come to me, I  _ always  _ end up finding you."

"I need help," he says, teeth gritted, realizes right quick that this could be taken the wrong way so he adds, "With a  _ job." _

"Oooh, mysterious and sexy, I like it!"

He sighs deeply, doesn't want to get too fed up and ruin this all, "I haven't even told you what the job is."

"Well, if it’s you and me on a job I already know it’s gonna be sexy, baby. You not telling me is what makes it mysterious."

"Well, I don't generally take jobs that need a cover story but the money was too good to pass up and I'll get picked out immediately if I go there all on my lonesome, looks weird if you don't have a partner, and there's no one else on earth I'd tolerate long enough to get this all done with so that’s why I’m asking you."

“Oh my god,” Wade starts beaming like a fucking idiot, “You need a plus one.”

“You’ll get a  _ quarter.  _ I found this gig, it’s my contract, my kill. I’m just compensating you for time,” he continues.

“What is it? What is it? C’monnnnn, where are we going together?”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer finger and  _ really  _ wishing he had anyone else he liked enough to consider working with, “It’s a wedding.”

Wilson does an honest to god spit-take. Must be trying out some new bit. Doesn’t quite land, but maybe it’s just ‘cos he’s annoyed and kind of ashamed of asking for someone to come help him on a job.

“You’re inviting me to a wedding?”

“Yeah,” he says, “For a  _ job.” _

“Still, that’s you inviting me to a wedding! As your plus one! After we just spent the night sleeping together and I woke up holding you and you made me breakfast which is all really adding up to one absolute complete and utter HOLY SHIT moment,” Wade’s getting so fast and frantic that Bullseye can’t help but watch him, if only to make sure he actually is taking the time to breathe, “Like, jesus christ, I wish the universe would give me a heads up on the plot synopsis so I can emotionally brace for this shit. Please, pretty please, can you just let a guy prepare himself? I need to know if this is gonna be a slow burn. Or  _ bait _ , oh god I hate when that happens. It’s fucking 2020, you don’t have to tease me like this.”

“Wade, you really gotta stop and  _ breathe, _ ” he says, kinda soft and quiet, “Sure, you’ll get better, but I really don’t want you to  _ literally  _ die from talking too much.”

“What the fuck,” Wilson laughs, white as sheet, “I think I’m having an anxiety attack.”

Well, there’s some kind of comfort in knowing that he’s not the only one with really fucked up interpersonal issues.

And he’d do something to help but he’s not really all that good at interacting with people and his responses to freaking the fuck out consist of: 

  * Shaving his head
  * Hallucinating, but like, it’s fine
  * Throwing all the cutlery into the wall and then wondering why he’s got drywall in his sandwich a few days later
  * Identity theft by way of just fully becoming someone down to their mannerisms and forgetting who he is because he hates himself or whatever
  * Hallucinating, but like, it’s not fine
  * Developing a hobby
  * And then throwing himself into it so obsessively that he’s up at 4am on day three of no sleep and crying or laughing uncontrollably while memorizing statistics from the last hundred years
  * Shaving his head (again)
  * Identity theft, but like, just the normal way
  * Organizing things in circles for hours on end until he feels kind of okay
  * Larceny
  * Arson
  * Art forgery
  * Shaving his eyebrows since he’s finally caught on to the fact that there’s no point to shaving your head when you’re already bald



And none of those seem all that helpful for when his kind of sort of only friend is having some kind of breakdown in front of him. Damn near guts him when he starts thinking that maybe this is how Wade feels around him. Doesn’t usually worry about things like that.

He settles on saying, “You don’t have to come with me.”

“I  _ want  _ to,” Wade sounds desperate, “I’m just processing all of this shit.”

He’s not too sure what all there is to process. Seems straightforward enough. He needs help with a job so he dropped by and asked. Nice and simple. Yes or no question.

He already knows he’s an  _ asshole,  _ and all of this is just kind of making him  _ uncomfortable.  _ Every part of it, from the night before until now, makes him feel all kinds of twisted up and uneasy. So he dips out, stopping for a second to rest his hand on Wilson’s shoulder.

“Well, offer’s on the table, just let me know. Gig’s in ten days. See ya.”

Wade clasps both hands over his heart, “You’re  _ abandoning  _ me? In my time of  _ need _ ?”

“Sorry,” he deadpans, “But I’m all burnt out on mental health crises. Betcha you can find a hotline nice ‘n’ easy. Maybe write in to Ask Amy, I hear she’s good for shit like this.”

That gets Wilson laughing, almost makes him smile, too. 

“Dear Amy,” Wade starts, picking up this nasally, ditzy tone, “My work friend--but don’t get me wrong, we get up to our fair share of pleasure too--invited me to a wedding totally out of the blue and I have to admit, I freaked. Now, I’m an adventurous gal and I’m always up for a party but I just wasn’t expecting a wedding invite. Well, I want to go and I like this guy a lot but I just don’t know what to do. Love, Wary Wedding Worrier.”

“Don’t worry too much,” he says, nice and soft, “It’s just a job.”

* * *

He heads back to his apartment. Well, hopes it's his apartment at least. He's fan-fucking-tastic with directions, but his memory ain't so hot, can't always keep it straight which one he's in at the moment.

What he really oughta do is go out and take a nice, easy job. Gonna need some pocket change to pull off a gig like this one. Clothes and airfare and a place to stay for the fucking wedding. He'd be alright almost anywhere but he knows Wade likes hotels.

But that can wait. He's gotta get out of his own head first, does his best work when he's kind of clear headed.

So he takes a shower, getting off the rest of the concealer and all the fucking grime from the last two--well,  _ three _ now--days. Really oughta do better about keeping up with things, but he's a busy guy. And he's extra careful to not let the bandage on his arm get wet, but thinking about  _ that  _ just gets him thinking about how carefully Wilson cleaned the graze and wrapped it up.

He's been thinking about Wade a lot these past few days. Doesn't even really mean to, but his thoughts just keep circling back.

After the shower, he crawls into bed. Doesn't even bother with clothes, just buries himself under the blankets so he doesn't get too cold, 'cos it's the first time he's felt tired enough to sleep in the last three days. Didn't even manage to sleep when he was with  _ Wade _ .

It'd be real easy to get some pills that'd knock him out, but he isn't too keen on the idea of not being able to wake up right away if something feels wrong. So he just burns himself out until he can't help it, doesn't care that it makes him feel like shit.

* * *

By the time he finally rolls out of bed, he feels like he’s been put through the fucking wringer. Clock’s useless ‘cos he still hasn’t bothered to put new batteries in it and god knows what timezone his phone’s even in right now. Ends up travelling a lot for work these days, now that he’s gone full time freelance.

He grabs his blackberry off the bedside table, a downright mess of knives and trinkets and half empty bottles. He oughta clean things up a bit, but his head just isn't screwed on right these days.

Starts texting his agent with one hand, devotes the other one to trying to push away the headache that's coming along.

_ need a job. local. fast. _

Short and to the point. Makes it easier on him 'cos he's only got so much tolerance for conversation and he's working with a 9 key numpad.

He's not expecting much, so he decides to pass the time by seeing what he's got for food. Hasn't eaten since the pancakes at Wade's and it's been at least twelve hours since then.

But he hasn't been back to the apartment lately and it's not like he was eating all that often in the first place so there isn't much of anything around. Kinda pisses him off that there's nothing around, that he didn't think this far ahead, so he figures he's finally made it to the part of the cycle where he gets all bleeding heart deciding to try and fix the wreck he's made.

He could order food but he's all caught up in his own head, knows he's in a bad way, the kind of mood where anything could spook him. And odds are, he'll be back to sleep in a couple hours anyway. Feels groggy and disoriented and all kinds of pissed off.

His phone buzzes in his hand, finally taking his mind off the bleak state of affairs in his barren apartment.

_Jesus christ, stop texting me at 4 am. You know I have a real_ _job? One that isn't babysitting an assassin?_

So he almost slept a whole damn day. Fucking waste of time but he knows better than to stay up so long he starts hallucinating more than usual.

_ u answered _ , he sends back, followed by,  _ i need cash _

For all the trouble, his agent is real fucking efficient, so he figures he won't be going back to sleep. He slips back to his bedroom, tosses the phone on the bed, and starts trying to find something clean to wear.

Been flying under the radar of late, so he's resigned himself to dri-fit and sweatpants rather than his costume. Makes it easier to get around without every spandex freak in a block's radius breathing down his neck.

It fits like a second skin and if he was the fucking corny sentimental type, he'd say it feels like a home, but he's  _ not.  _ So he'll just say he's more than a little pissed off that he's been working low profile. Too many people after him, he'd end up with his head mounted on somebody's wall in a day. Or worse, he'd end up in fucking Rikers again.

Still has it, though. Hanging up in his pathetically empty closet. Makes him feel safer knowing it's there, which feels an awful lot like weakness to admit.

His blackberry buzzes just as he pulls a shirt on. Goes to check it 'cos odds are it's his agent. He isn't exactly the most popular guy around. People only come to him if they need a job done and done right. And he likes it that way, doesn't want anyone around much other than--

Well, Wade.

Who's also the only other person that might possibly text him and yeah, he's pretty sure it's fucking Wilson 'cos the text he's staring at reads:

_ are you ready for me to take your wedding crashing virginity?? _

Followed by two empty boxes that have to be emojis 'cos Wade sure can't seem to remember that he can't see half of them. But he's pretty damn sure he doesn't want to see these ones anyway.

_ u think im new 2 this? _

He'd almost be mad if he wasn't so sure Wade just wanted to phrase it like that. Something tells him Wilson's one of the only people that doesn't underestimate him, doesn't think he's a one trick pony.

Wade texts him back almost instantly.

_ awwww, babe, are you a homewrecker? _

And, well, he's not gonna think too hard about the  _ babe  _ part.

_ if shootouts count then sure im a homewrecker _ , he sends, then adds on,  _ i dont do spy shit tho _

It's funny, the only person he's ever bothered to explain himself to is  _ Wade fuckin' Wilson _ . He wonders if Wade knows how damn lucky he is, getting just the slightest sliver of information out of him.

_ it's adorable that you call having a backstory so people don't immediately realize that you're an assassin 'spy shit'.  _

_ like really i'm not making fun of you. it's fuckin cute, B. _

But he doesn't want to think about any of this right now. Not about the texts or last night or the stupid fucking wedding job that he's locked into now. So he pockets his phone and leaves Wade to send him a clusterfuck of unread messages while he makes breakfast.

It’s pathetic that it’s gotten to the point of only making goddamn food because he wants to ignore Wade’s messages but he figures he’s gotta get the important shit done one way or another. He starts a pot of coffee and sets to tearing apart his little kitchen for anything still edible.

Truth is, he never stays in one place too long but he’s been at this apartment long enough that it’s just starting to get sad. Oughta accept that he’s gonna be here for a while and make something of it, but that’s just another thing to add to the list of shit that scares him.

(Now see, he might’ve claimed to be Daredevil before, but he’s never claimed to be a Man Without Fear. Keeps him alive, y’know. Keeps him wily and sharp and above all else,  _ safe _ .)

Maybe, just maybe, being in Wade's apartment threw him off. Wilson bounces from safehouse to safehouse every couple months but he  _ still _ had a fully stocked pantry and posters on the wall and a table with chairs and dishes and actual sheets on the bed. Not just blankets overtop a bare mattress he's definitely bled on at least twice so far.

That's what it is. That's what's freaking him out, getting him all tangled up in his own head.

Just proves his point when he finds himself eating cereal out of a pint glass because everything else is broken for one reason or another. 

(He knows exactly what all the _reasons_ are and that they're all his own damn fault, but it _sounds_ nicer that way.)

And he can't dodge his messages forever 'cos he's waiting for details on the job, so he checks 'em while he's sitting on the counter, kicking his legs back against the empty cupboards. 

There's four new texts from Wade which is a lot less than usual and one from his agent.

_ Don't bother me this early again,  _ it says, followed by an address and a name, nothing more.

He likes this agent, thinks she's a good one, 'cos she doesn't give him too many stupid instructions and she doesn't ask him questions about himself, like they're fucking coworkers at an office job, and she's always got something for him to do.

This is what he needs, something to clear his head.

* * *

The target isn't far from his apartment, so he slides the window open and climbs out. It's cool, just starting to get light. He's up before the sun most days but it doesn't matter much 'cos he's fucking colorblind and he'd be a  _ real  _ psychopath if he was enjoying the sunrise while on his way to go kill someone.

He doesn't know who wants this guy dead or why and he really doesn't care. Just needs to keep himself busy while everything else sorts itself out. And the money helps, too. But mostly it's about keeping himself busy, sticking to a routine, instant gratification and all that bullshit.

He goes insane without some kind of goal, some kind of tangible way to prove he's done something. Getting the job is praise enough 'cos he knows his reputation precedes him, but the times people tell him to his face that he's done good just makes it all the sweeter.

And he's just got a new pack of paperclips he's been playing with, hasn't had any time to do much other than put them in the ceiling but they're coated, black and white, instead of just plain ol' fashioned and he likes that an awful lot. It's the little things, y'know?

Keeps on fiddling around with them while he waits, doesn't ever get bored of it 'cos he's good at waiting. Doesn't think much while he's working, keeps his eyes peeled for any kind of movement or input he needs, like a fucking hawk.

He waits in the stairwell nearest to the parking spot that matches the target's apartment number. Only steps out when he sees the guy approaching, shuts the door all quiet-like behind him. The unlucky sap unlocks his car and topples over before he can even open it up.

Got him good with the first paperclip, but Bullseye can't just leave it at that, not when just  _ one  _ would make it impossible to tell that he's got a set of black  _ and  _ white ones. So he embeds a couple more in the man's face, alternating colors, where he's lying sprawled out on the floor of the parking garage, keys still in his hand.

And then he snaps a picture and texts it to his agent. Not that the whole world won't know who did it soon enough.

He likes getting his name in headlines, makes him feel awfully special.

Doesn't really want to go back home yet, though, so he takes the stairs up to the roof of the parking garage and sits on the edge, legs crossed at the ankles.

Maybe Daredevil will come along and find him, but the Devil doesn't patrol much in the mornings and every last one of the stolen self help books he's kind of sort of read say that getting people to beat you up isn't too good for you. Might cause psychological damage or whatever.

But he's bored, so he lobs some gravel down from his perch, careening perfectly into the windshields of three cars parked along the street. The glass on all three cars shatters into a million pieces simultaneously but he's not so lucky that the alarms sync up. At least then it'll get some attention.

He's not the type that needs to be around when they find the body, but he likes to listen in. Not even to the police; he's happy with hearing the neighbors complaining about the alarms going off or how there's always something or another happening to ruin their morning.

Any kind of attention is good attention. That's his motto. Might take it to extremes at times but he's lived by it more than half his life. 

It's a good morning, overall. Always feels satisfied after a job well done. And he's in such a good mood that he can't even be too mad when Wade leaps across from the next building over and lands about fifteen feet off to his side.

"I  _ thought  _ I heard the telltale sound of some early morning chaos! I was hoping it was you instead of some new D-lister called 'the Vandalizer' or some shit because you  _ know  _ you're in dire straits in the sales department if they start scraping the bottom of the barrel like that."

Half the time he's got no goddamn idea what Wilson's saying to him, but they still seem to get along alright.

"Y'know," Wade drops down next to him, kicking his feet back against the side of the building, "If I didn't know you were the most antisocial person alive, I'd almost think you were dodging my texts."

"Maybe I  _ was." _

Wade laughs, "That'd mean you have to check your texts more than once a day first."

He doesn't have anything to say to that. Wilson never seems to mind when he doesn't have much to say, anyway. They're real similar, when it comes down to the wire. Talk a lot without saying much at all.

But Wilson's getting bored. He's taken to throwing rocks, too. Chucks one all the way across the street and right into someone's window. 

"Aren't you supposed to be a hero?" He smiles, kinda wild, and he knows he has to outdo Wilson now or it'll go right to his head.

"I'm an  _ anti- _ hero. And do you know how much property damage the  _ real  _ heroes get up to? The fuckin' Avengers get a five buildings leveled per month allowance."

"You're lying."

"Am  _ not!  _ Scouts honor! I was an Avenger for a hot second! I saw the permit with my own eyes!"

He almost laughs at Wade, got his hand held up like he's swearing on a bible, "Yeah  _ right." _

Bullseye bites his tongue, one eye squeezed shut as he lines up a shot. It'd be cheating to use one of his paperclips, not that he cares, but he goes with gravel anyway. Takes out one streetlight bulb with a crash, watches it ricochet into another before finally embedding in a car's tire.

"Fucking show-off," Wade socks him in the arm, nice and playful.

He shrugs, "Not my fault you can't do this."

And then Wilson sighs wistfully, dopey grin turned up to the sky, "If only Vine was still around. We could make bank off of trickshot videos."

"I already make bank," he huffs, always gets a bit touchy about shit like this.

"Yeah, but being a gun for hire won't make you go  _ viral,"  _ Wade shrugs, and then right away he grimaces, "Unless you're doing snuff films but I don't think you want  _ that  _ kind of internet fame."

"I reckon I'm doing just fine for myself as it is."

"Yeah, you're right, killing people is probably less stressful than being an internet starlet," Wade nudges Bullseye's foot with his own, "So, when are we heading out for that wedding job, anyway?"

He shrugs, doesn't usually plan this far ahead, "Soon as I get paid for this, I guess. I figure we can hole up in a hotel for a few days and go over the plan. Don't have much to pack, anyway."

"Excellent! You get us tickets and a room, alright?  _ Just  _ one, we can have some  _ fun _ before the job, maybe."

He shuts his eyes, kind of humming as he rolls it around in his mind. That'd be enough to make it worth shelling out for a hotel for Wade's sake. Somewhere private and clean and roomy, just how Wade likes it. The kind of place where he doesn't mind if they take their time 'cos Wade always takes  _ such  _ good care of him.

"I'm gonna split, though. Day-glo orange is  _ so  _ not my color, B," Wade laughs and then leans right over and kisses him.

And it isn't that they haven't kissed before and it sure as shit isn't that they haven't kissed  _ in public  _ before _ ,  _ but there's nothing behind it other than something quick and soft and reflexive and gentle. And that's what gets his stomach all twisted up in knots.

No desperation, isn't a matter of the two of them not being able to keep their hands off each other long enough to make it back to somewhere more private. Doesn't taste like  _ want  _ or  _ need  _ or whatever the fuck else. Just tastes like Wade's obnoxiously fruity chapstick.

He oughta run, too. There's sirens echoing off of all the buildings in the block and they won't get to spend a week at a hotel together if he's gotta break out of Rikers again. Keeps getting harder each damn time, must be learning his tricks.

So he skips out. Leaves the pigs to their own devices and slinks back home 'cos no matter what the presses say, he's not a fucking jailbird. Doesn't ever want to be inside, isn't one of those guys who just can't live on the outside anymore. Plus, he's got work to do. Gotta pack and get ready for this job.

* * *

Ever since he went freelance, he's been missing out on private air travel, doesn't have anyone to take care of it for him, so he's gotta do this shit the same as everyone else. Not that he'd give up the kind of control he has now just so someone can fly him out where he needs to go all on his lonesome. He's got choices now; he can turn down every contract he's offered if he damn well pleases to.

But that also means he's gotta deal with fucking TSA and it's not like he's bringing weapons with him, at least not anything they'll register as a weapon, but it still makes his skin crawl. Stupid motherfuckers always end up staring at him like they think they know something or another.

He's got a whole slew of passports, ones that can get him just about anywhere. That isn't the problem. Nothing on paper is the problem, he's got that shit covered. Always has been good at airtight aliases, even if he hates to go undercover. But it comes with the territory, needs something to hide behind when he can't just introduce himself as Bullseye.

No, the real problem comes once he gets down to the actual process of travelling. He's standing in the X-ray machine and the operator's fucking staring at him, but they aren't gonna call him off to the side and search him 'cos they never do.

"What the fuck are you starin' at?" He growls, even though he knows damn well.

See, they never pull him off to the side 'cos he's never stupid enough to leave his keys or his phone in his pocket. Can't exactly fault him for having bars and pins and supports drilled into his fucking bones. But it sure does make people stare.

He's got some awful nasty scars from when the supports got put in, too. Which just made the handful of times he's been pulled off and strip searched that much more humiliating. 

The fucker over in Japan wasn't exactly careful with him. Probably intended to keep him as a weapon and it didn't much matter what he looked like then. But now he's stuck with these big, deep, ruts of scar tissue across his spine, twisted around his joints, running down his arms and legs.

Just like always, nothing you couldn't hide behind long sleeves. It's funny how everyone always thinks alike, always acts the same.

The guy waves him along, tries to act like it’s nothing at all, but he  _ knows,  _ he  _ knows  _ that whenever he doesn’t blend in, the whole world’s staring at him like it hates his guts. He pulls his boots back on, leaves them unlaced ‘cos he wants to get the fuck outta dodge. Grabs his bag out of the basket and stomps over to where Wade is waiting for him.

“Woah, B, what the fuck was  _ that?  _ I never would’ve pegged you for the ‘can I talk to the manager’ type.”

“Some people just don’t have any common fucking decency,” he growls, still seething, “You think you can just  _ gawk  _ at me and I won’t fucking care?”

“Well,” Wade says, all soft and gentle and he can already tell he’s gonna hate whatever comes next, “Most of the time, I thought you were  _ going  _ for that.”

It’s about control, but he’s not gonna explain that. Might mean giving up the last little shreds of it he has. He can  _ control  _ when everyone’s looking at him, what they’re looking at. Might seem like some desperate attention whore, but he’s got it down to an art.

“That’s  _ different _ ,” he settles on, prying it out through gritted teeth.

“Look, dude, you think I don’t understand this? Because I do. Whatever made you freak out back there, I  _ will  _ understand it. Better than most people.”

“Just mind your own fucking business,  _ alright _ ?”

He’s being mean, but that’s what he  _ does.  _ Still, Wilson’s gotta live with this, same as he does, and Wade’s got it worse off, too. Can’t hide it worth shit. He’s  _ lucky,  _ if you could call it that. Just so happens that everyone’s always been  _ oh so careful, oh so considerate.  _ Only ones you can see are his own damn fault, smashing through windows and the like.

* * *

They don’t talk until they’ve already taken off. He’s pretty sure Wade isn’t mad at him, just knows he needs space sometimes, and it’s the only thing keeping him relatively alright and in the moment, but god damn if it doesn’t make his skin crawl just thinking about how Wilson knows him well enough to do this without asking.

He shelled out for first class seats, usually does. Might just be fucked in the head, but he feels a whole lot better when he’s not surrounded on all sides. Still doesn’t have any contingency plans if this all goes to shit because he’s not so fucked in the head that he’ll jump out of a commercial airliner, but at least he’s got a good idea of how many people are here and who’s where and all that.

Just settles down as best he can and keeps his bag close just in case. There's nothing in it that'd raise suspicions but anything's good enough to make him feel more at ease. He's not too keen on situations where he can't just run.

"Sooooo," Wade starts, breaking the hours worth of silence between them, "At what point in the flight do you stop looking like a deer in headlights? Because, like, most people would just take a xanax and fucking chillax on an eight hour flight."

"Makes me feel like shit, like I'm a fucking zombie," he admits, worrying at the skin around his nails; gonna tear up his cuticles before the day is out.

"That's the point, I think. But then again, what do I know! Super metabolism takes like half the fun out of recreational drugs!"

"Well, I've been sedated against my will enough times that it's basically dog trained me into freaking the fuck out."

Wade nods sagely, "Sleeper agent activation trigger."

"That's one way to put it," he laughs, real dry and hollow.

And he knows exactly what it is. He's a masochist, after all, keeps on torturing himself talking to shrinks. Hates it more than anything, but he figures it's a better way to pass the time than getting people to kick his teeth in, even if he goes through a doctor a month.

"You want me to come over there and make you relax?" Wilson gives him this coy little smile, nudging Bullseye's thigh with the toe of his shoe.

"I do this all the time. I'm fine."

He figures Wilson's gonna end up sitting next to him eventually, no matter what he says. But he'll cross that bridge when he gets to it. Right now, they've got just over six hours left and he'd pick back up on his research if he wasn't so on edge. 

There's something about all of this that makes him feel trapped, which is fucking stupid 'cos he's way worse off getting flown places by a private employer. Might just shoot him in the head and drop his body somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean and call it a day. Could probably make a pretty penny doing that. A job would be the perfect bait to draw him out.

But he can't start thinking like that 'cos then he'd be  _ broke  _ and paranoid instead of just plain ol' fashioned paranoid and when he's got money, he can at least  _ afford  _ his meds.

* * *

He's right. Before they're even halfway through the flight, Wilson slips over and takes the seat next to him. And then Wilson leans against him and just up and falls asleep.

Figures it's pretty easy to feel safe everywhere when you can't die and that  _ might  _ make him feel real fucked up and jealous, if he was that kinda guy. But he's  _ fine.  _ There's  _ nothing _ about this situation that's making him bug the fuck out.

And he's telling himself it's the quiet rather than the closeness that's letting him settle down long enough to pull his notes out of his backpack. Doesn't have jack shit to do with the fact that he  _ trusts  _ Wade to have his back if anything goes really wrong.

The job is simple enough, but when it's got a lot of moving parts, he likes to know everything about a contract before even setting foot on the scene. 

  1. Both the bride and the groom are currently in charge of their respective family companies
  2. The marriage is a fucking sham, real Romeo and Juliet shindig, just trying to settle down bad blood and join the companies
  3. Somebody hates them enough to shell out for one of them to die
  4. Just _one._ And the client isn't picky either.



He'd tried to sell 'em on the twofer one rate, but this is about sending a message and inflicting pain, which he can respect. Just means he gets less money in the long run, though.

They're getting married in some big waterfront hookup in Spain, which is gonna make this job real fuckin' sweet. Especially since he's holing up in a hotel with Wilson before and after the gig's done. He's never been the beach vacation type, but at least he can get blitzed while Wade does whatever he does.

Even if they have to be awful quiet about all this, it should be easy and quick once they get a chance to be alone with the happy couple. Sure, it’s a test of restraint getting outta there with only one body, but he’s a fucking professional. If someone says only kill one person, he’s sure as shit gonna make that happen.

* * *

He’s not stupid and he’s not an adrenaline junkie, so they’re shacked up in a five star place that’s nowhere  _ near  _ the wedding reception. Maybe if he was younger, he would’ve liked the risk factor of staying in the same damn hotel as his target, of kicking back with Wilson and blowing off some steam when everyone else in the fucking building is looking for the two of them, but he’s getting tired of all that. The thrill of the kill is more than enough.

And it  _ is  _ a real fuckin’ nice place, lots of windows letting in the sunlight, full on master bath joined to the room, pool on one side of the hotel and a beach on the other side. He sets his bag, singular, down at the foot of the bed and Wade drops his bags,  _ multiple _ , right next to his. It all kind of strikes him as funny, every single thing that’s happening, down to Wade kicking his shoes off and sitting on the end of the bed.

His therapist might have something to say about digging through the hotel minibar like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, but he doesn’t really care right now because this whole situation is a  _ lot  _ to handle currently, “What d’ya wanna drink?”

“Oh so we’re  _ day-drinking _ now,” Wade laughs, “I mean I guess it wouldn’t be a vacation if we weren’t, though.”

“This isn’t a vacation,” he knocks back about half of the most visually appealing bottle in the collection and heads right on over to offer the other half to Wade, climbing up on the bed and straddling him and watching his eyes real carefully.

Wade takes the bottle from him and finishes it off, “You’re the one that put us up in this Barbie Malibu Dreamhouse ass hotel. If you aren’t worried about getting a parasite previously unknown to mankind in an hourly rate motel while on a job then it’s a vacation with murder on the side.”

“Maybe that’s how you live  _ your  _ life,” he laughs, and again, it’s so fucking strange how at ease he feels around Wade fucking Wilson.

(He's never been opposed to nicer places, already got the money and there's no good reason not to spend it. Plus, he's spent too many nights sleeping on the floor for one reason or another.)

And they're so close together right now. He's not too sure why he thought it was such a good idea to start straddling Wade, but he did and now it's too late to back out. He doesn't even have anything to say anymore. Kind of at a loss for words, just staring at Wilson.

"Shit, there's a pool here, right? Let's go swimming before we gotta lay low like the fugitives we are," Wade's beaming like it's the best idea in the world and he figures that Wilson noticed how fuckin' weird the silence was.

"If you throw me in the water, I'll kill you."

"Aren't you a buzzkill?" Wade laughs, knocking their foreheads together.

"Well," he says, doesn't add much bite to it, "Just be glad I'm gonna come with you."

* * *

Experience has shown yet and yet again that nothing good ever comes from going along with Wilson, but somehow he still finds himself sitting down at the pool deck as Wade makes a bonafide fool of himself in the water. 

He used to swim, used to be pretty damn good at it. Done just about every competitive sport on the books one time or another. But he hasn't tried it since the whole Terminator make-over and he's not too keen on showing that hand to Wilson just quite yet.

So instead he's sitting back in a lounge chair, nursing a cocktail he shouldn't be having, but it came with a few little plastic swords and he's only having  _ one  _ and he's  _ responsible.  _

"You having any fun over there, Addams Family reject?" Wade laughs as he comes awful close to splashing Bullseye.

"Jesus fucking Christ, I didn't know Free Willy could talk, too," he deadpans, cocktail sword between his teeth, eyes rolling behind his sunglasses.

He really does look the part between the black pants + long sleeved shirt combo and the (also black) wide brimmed hat he's hiding under. But in his defense, he's still semi-nocturnal these days and a handful of his meds make him photosensitive.

"Nah," Wade says, clinging to the side of the pool and watching him, head resting against his forearms, "I'm one of those chicks where if they get hit with even a drop of water, then it's sushi city. You know, the one where they're like  _ 'oh crikey mate it's rainin' down under and now I'm gonna grow a tail _ ', but I'm not Australian. Just the American spin-off."

Like always, he has almost no idea what any of that means.

And then Wilson kicks up water behind him, dragging his fingers across the deck, "You're booooring."

"I'm  _ relaxing. _ "

He really isn't. He's always a little bit wired for sound in a new place for a couple days. Can't exactly call it hypervigilance when he's someone who kills people in the places they'd least expect it. It's more of a healthy apprehension.

Wilson pulls himself out of the pool after he doesn't get a response. Makes a big ol' show of it, too, like he's in a shampoo ad, towelling off and settling down in the lounge chair beside Bullseye.

(They're the same, really. Always fishing for attention. He's just careful about it, isn't so ostentatious.)

"Think I'd make the cut for Baywatch?"

Bullseye laughs,  _ really  _ laughs, "I'm pretty sure they've already written that franchise off, dude."

"Well maybe I can bring it back around! You ever considered that?!"

"Oh,  _ of course _ ," he smacks his forehead like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "Of course you'll be the one to single handedly save  _ all  _ of the Baywatch franchise."

"Don't be  _ mean!" _

“I’m  _ not  _ being mean. This is just my voice.”

Wade pauses for a second, worrying at his lip, “Yeah, that checks out.”

Then, Wilson reaches all the way across him and grabs his fucking cocktail, taking a swig from it. He's used to this kind of shit, Wade seems to have no boundaries at all. It's pretty grating.

"Don't give me fucking mono."

Wilson snorts, almost choking on the steadily melting semi-frozen concoction, "What are we? Sexually frustrated high school drama club sweethearts?"

"I never went to high school."

"Ever seen Degrassi?" Wade looks him over carefully, "Maybe Glee?"

"Nope!" He shrugs.

"Well, if you're ever in a high school theater room, do NOT sit on that couch. You'll know the one when you see it."

"Good to know," he says, grimacing slightly, already resolved himself to never set foot in a high school back when he stopped going to school.

"Besides, I don't think I can even get mono with the super healing so, like, I think we're fine to share drinks all we want," Wade makes a point to slurp the cocktail as loudly as possible before stopping suddenly, " _ Hey,  _ wait a  _ second,  _ you've  _ literally  _ had my tongue down your throat, like, just last week!"

“Why’d you even agree to this, Wade?” He asks, can’t be bothered with the back and forth anymore ‘cos there’s something eating at him, gnawing him up inside.

“Free drinks!”

“Try again.”

“Uhhhhh, I get to spend some quality time with my third favorite gun for hire?”

Wilson’s good, already figured out that he’s fishing for something. (And that he’d be on edge if Wade ranked him too high.) Worst part is, he’s not even sure what answer he’s fishing for.

“Yeah  _ right _ ,” he laughs, short and sharp.

Wade shrugs, “How about: You’re offering me money and I didn’t have any plans this week.”

And then, because obviously he fucking hates himself, he says, “I thought you were  _ with  _ that time-cop fucker.”

Good to know the jealous streak will always win out over the self destructive streak.

“Woah,  _ woah there,  _ hold on, wait just a fucking minute,” Wade holds up a finger as if to say ‘one second’, and downs the rest of  _ his  _ drink, “One, holy shit, I thought we were old enough this kind of drama wouldn’t happen, and  _ two,  _ half the time I run into him and he says we’re divorced, and I’m like ‘shit, man, we haven’t even made it to marriage yet,’ and then he zaps away to go do some Back to the Future shit. We’ve been all on again, off again since Split Second.”

Maybe all that oughta make him feel better ‘cos it’s not like he’s the relationship type,  _ at all.  _ Too flighty and too restless to make anything  _ last.  _ But he’s got a tendency to get  _ stuck  _ on people and it’s all some big fucked up cosmic joke. Bullseye, serial killer  _ and  _ monogamist.

“Really, I promise. I don’t  _ do  _ cheating. I’m up for anything if it’s previously discussed and agreed upon by all parties involved. And yeah, the situation with Cable is…  _ complicated _ , but currently, I’m as profoundly single as an overbearing chivalry obsessed guy in a women’s studies course.”

He’s really, really, fucked this one up. Let just a little too much of his hand show instead of stewing in it all until he snaps. Only a matter of time until someone figures out that he gets  _ jealous  _ and then it’s just  _ obvious  _ that he didn’t skewer Elektra for kicks.

But Wade’s trying, really hard, so hard, he won’t even let Bullseye get a word in edgewise, “Believe me, I have not hit a home run in  _ weeks,  _ maybe even  _ months.  _ Things are looking pretty desperate in the Wade Wilson’s Love Life Depart-- _ holy shit,  _ wait, is this whole thing you trying to ask me  _ out?” _

He grimaces, “ _ I’m _ weighing the pros and cons of shoving a cocktail sword through your eye-socket and then booking the next flight to NYC and I gotta say, the odds are  _ not  _ in your favor.”

“I’ll take that as a maybe!”

Most guys would be put off by that and he's not too sure if he's grateful or annoyed that Wade's still keen on him. He doesn't know what he fucking wants, never does.

Doesn't know what he thinks about all of this, or even if he wants to think about it. So he stands up, kind of abrupt and awkward but Wade's the one person who can see him falter and live to tell the story.

"I'm going back up to the room. Gotta be prepared for the job."

Wade catches his wrist, nice and gentle, nothing he can't get out of, "Text me when you're cool with me coming up, 'kay?"

He twists out of Wade's grip, "Alright."

Maybe what's really fucking him up is the whole boundaries and limits and check-ins thing. Obviously, he's got some  _ baggage _ but he's never really around anyone long enough for it to be a problem.

Either way, it's fucking easier when someone's beating the shit out of him.

Gets all the way upstairs before realizing he's already lost his keycard but he sure as shit isn't going back downstairs and risking running into Wilson so he can get a new one. Just jimmies the door open real carefully, and it's almost funny. Usually when he's doing this, he's gonna kill whoever's in the room.

He opens up his backpack and spreads out what paper information he has. Starts his old brick of a laptop booting up.

It's all fine. Everything's fine. He'll break out all of his notes and research and intel on the marks and make a day out of it. And he won't go raid the mini fridge because he'd like to not accidentally get wasted or fuck up his neurotransmitters any more than they're already fucked. He can do this.

* * *

Except he can't. He's just hanging upside down off the bed, staring at the boring fucking wall and still chewing on the almost destroyed cocktail sword. 

He oughta text Wade, let him know he can come up, because he’s not in the mood to play games. But that also means admitting that he wasn’t okay in the first place, which is like pulling  _ teeth  _ and he’d rather die.

Still, he’s half sure that Wilson would spend the whole night down there if he didn’t give the okay. Can’t mean anything good that the idea makes his skin crawl. Doesn’t like to be the one in control, or at least not the one initiating things. People tell him what to do and he makes sure it gets done, nothing more, nothing less.

He sighs, then he groans, then he opens a text to Wade and types out ‘ _truce_ ’ like a fucking adult. And then he fucks off to go take a shower so he won’t have to look Wilson in the eye when he comes back up to the room.

He leaves the bathroom door open about halfway, never settles down unless he can hear what's going on while he's in the shower.

Not as paranoid as he could be, these days. He's finally on something like an even keel. Quit working for Fisk, started going freelance, which helped. Last thing he needs to do is find a therapist he can talk to without reflexively trying to kill 'em.

(Always seems to happen when they get to the hard parts, the shit he doesn't want to think about, much less remember.)

He's not even trying to wash away all the grime of travelling, just standing under the water and hoping to god Wade doesn't up and decide to join him. All of this has been a lot more than he expected and he's half certain he's gonna have to call it quits with Wade for the next year or so just to get some fucking distance.

Well, if distance is what he even wants.

The room door opens and he tenses, awful twist in his guts because he isn't used to travelling  _ with  _ someone and usually this'd mean he's fucked. 

But he's  _ not  _ because it's just Wade, who calls out, "Hey B, you want anything from room service or are you, like, stuck in work mode right now?"

No matter what he says, Wade's gonna order extras and he'll end up eating them because Wade has a way with  _ persuasion,  _ even if it's no technique Bullseye's ever seen before. And it's all because Wilson knows he gets in this headspace where he can't eat, can't sleep, can't think about anything other than the job.

He hasn't reached that point yet, though. Give it a few days, til he's over the jet lag.

Which is the other reason he got the single bed room. Eventually he'll get stuck in that space and eventually Wade'll get annoyed enough about him staying up all hours of the night that he'll coax Bullseye into cuddling and he probably won't sleep but he'll be laying down for once.

He  _ knows  _ dependent, spent years as Fisk's lapdog for nothing more than table scraps of praise 'cos Fisk kept him housed and fed and healthy. He's  _ not  _ dependent on Wade. But all of this shit is new. Wanting him around because it's  _ easier,  _ hell, even just  _ liking  _ him, that's all new.

"I'm good," he yells back.

And then Wade turns the TV on, not too loud but not too quiet. Makes for nice, soft, mindless background noise. Neither of them seem to like quiet much, and there's no need to question it, either.

He finally sets to washing up, might as well get some use out of his totally insane attempt at getting out of actually talking to Wade.

When he's on an even keel, he's thorough. Meticulous. Used to shave his arms, legs, even his eyebrows sometimes, anything he could manage, and speculation says he did it to get around DNA evidence, but he really just liked the  _ control.  _

Hasn't done it in a while, though, so maybe he's not on as even a keel as he thought.

Might not matter anyway, since he's working and he's generally alright. Hasn't gotten too beat up and hasn't skipped too many meals and hasn't gone too long without sleeping.

"Holy shit, Bullseye," Wilson's voice brings him back to himself, "It's been, like, forty minutes and some of us would like to shower off  _ today. _ I  _ know  _ you don't have hair to wash, dude. Are you, like, jacking off in there or something?"

"Fuck off and die, already!"

But it works, he shuts the water off and steps out, wraps a towel around his waist. 

Once Wade shuts the bathroom door behind him, he towels off and leaves it draped over a chair. Digs through his bag until he finds some clean underwear and pulls them on. Then, he heads back to the bed, setting himself to work again.

Ends up spreading all his files around him, might be riskier but he prefers paper over electronic files even if he's got his laptop with him. Can't exactly jot down spur of the moment epiphanies on a fucking PDF.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when room service comes knocking on their door. Bolts to his feet and gets the door to let the guy in, just daring them to say anything about the fact he's half naked, looks like shit, covered in old bruises.

The waiter looks awful nervous, like there's something wrong here, and it's not the kind of fear Bullseye  _ likes.  _ He's mostly in control now, but he didn't pick out this situation.

"You gonna gawk at me all day or what? 'Cos the food's gettin' cold."

"Yes, yes of course," the waiter recovers quickly, carries the tray from the rolling cart to their little table.

" _ Good job _ ," he smiles, showing all his teeth, "Now  _ scram _ ."

The waiter shivers like someone just walked over his grave and ducks out of their room real quick. Wade’s not gonna be happy that he’s being rude to the waitstaff  _ again _ , but maybe he wouldn’t be so rude if they didn’t stare at him so much. Everywhere he goes, always happens and it’s always for the wrong damn reasons.

Hangs around ‘til the waiter shuts the door to settle back down on the bed, lying flat on his stomach with his head propped up against one of his palms. Thumbs through his papers with the other, twirling a pen between his fingers whenever they’re free.

No matter how he looks at it, it still is a simple enough job. He’s overthinking the shit out of it, like he always does.

He’s got the floorplan burned into his brain and the bios on both potential targets memorized, even though he really has no need for knowing any of their likes or dislikes or their habits. Big events are always a step outside of a cycle, no one knows what to expect, not really. Hasn’t been rehearsed an infinite amount of times.

It’s easy to slip into the fray then. As much as he hates party jobs, it’s easy when everyone’s assuming someone else knows who you are and they’re committing some heinous faux pas by not knowing.

He's always had a knack for these things, even if he grew up outside them all. Isn't too sure if he finds the cycles or they find him, but it's as on the nose as it is comforting to be able to find them anywhere.

And he's caught there, almost in a trance until he feels fingers against his back. So he lobs his pen against the wall he's facing, ricochets off, careening behind him.

"No, no, no, fuck," Wade yelps, "Don't take my fucking eye out  _ again! _ "

Should've known it was Wilson, but he's still getting used to the whole travelling together thing and he must've zoned out 'cos he never heard Wade get out of the shower.

He twists around real quick, "Shit, sorry, you just fucking touched me outta nowhere, I didn't think."

Wade's got the pen lodged in the crook of his neck, grimacing like it hurts like hell. Probably does, but Wilson's the only guy Bullseye's seen take a hit like this and stay standing so maybe he's got some dulled pain receptors.

"Least it's not my eye," Wade chokes out, sounds awfully wet, "Takes forever to grow back."

"Should, should I pull it out?"

He knows the basics for  _ normal  _ people, but accelerated healing is a little out of his wheelhouse. Might just grow around the pen instead of keeping him from bleeding out. Considering their hotel room isn't ruined, he definitely didn't hit an artery though.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll pull it out,” he doesn’t bother waiting for a response from Wade, “Wait, not here though, we’ll go to the bathroom. Easier cleanup.”

“You never seen Forensic Files, idiot?” Wilson rasps, sounds even worse than before, “Heard’a fucking Luminol?”

Bullseye laughs, “You must think you’re awful special if you’re convinced you’re the only person to bleed out in one of these bathtubs. Someone probably already got iced in ours.”

“Good point.”

And then Wade attempts to take a step forward and damn near eats shit on the carpet. Bullseye catches him in time, of course, and somehow gets roped into helping Wade do the walk of shame to get to the hotel bathroom.

So far, they’re lucky enough to not get any blood on the carpeting. He’s got this terrible morbid desire to unscrew the top the pen and pull out all the internal components and see if Wilson’s blood comes shooting out of it like a straw. 

But he doesn’t, ‘cos that would be messy. Maybe he’ll ask Wade to try it out some time off the clock since Wilson’s awful keen on trying to get him on board for, and he quotes, “the new reality TV craze, Jackass Without Limits.”

It’s one of the few goddamn times ever where Wade’s been  _ quiet,  _ but he’s not complaining. Makes his work a whole hell of a lot easier. He herds Wilson into the bathtub and folds over him and pulls out the pen with as much tact as he can muster.

There’s a fresh spurt of blood from the hole, arcs across the wall of the bathtub. Still isn’t quite dramatic enough to be arterial. And it’s all so messy that he can’t really tell if he was right about it growing around the pen, even if he’s real fucking curious now.

Wade keeps moving his mouth like he’s trying to talk, but all that comes out is gore bubbling between his lips.

“You’ll be fine, don’t worry about it,” he pats Wilson’s arm.

He’s never claimed to be any good at  _ comforting  _ people, anyway. But Wade must get the idea because he gives a thumbs up and then his eyes roll into the back of his head.

Then, he pushes himself up, whole body stiff as hell for one reason or another. Heads on over to the sink and scrubs all the blood off his arms, doesn’t even bother waiting for the water to get hot.

And, well, he might as well do Wilson a favor ‘cos he knows how much it fucking sucks to regain consciousness and then immediately have to wash off your own coagulated blood. You couldn’t exactly call him  _ nice,  _ but he  _ does  _ plug the drain, fill the sink with warm soapy water, and grab a washcloth.

* * *

Wade comes to when he’s in the middle of trying to get him cleaned up.

Opens his eyes right up and wraps his hand around Bullseye’s wrist while he’s working on the stubborn patch of crusted blood that ran down the inside of Wade’s shirt en route to the bathroom.

“You  _ do  _ have a heart!” Wade still sounds  _ bad,  _ like shit’s still growing back on the inside.

“Yeah, yeah, just let me work, alright?”

Hopefully, Wilson won’t be too pissed off when he realizes Bullseye cut him out of his shirt. Easier than trying to maneuver around dead weight. He gets back up, dunks the washcloth in the sink again. By now, it’s pretty fucking dirty, already drained it out once.

Wade whines, “Bet our fuckin’ food’s cold.”

“That’s the least of our worries right now.”

He kneels back down, gets back to work. Almost done, just trying to get that last patch. He’d leave it to Wilson, but he can’t abide by something left unfinished.

“You’re sweet,” Wade laughs, like he’s not the reason they’re in this situation in the first place.

Once he’s done, he sets the cloth aside and helps Wade up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lmao this took like 4 whole months BUT FINALLY, it's complete! enjoy! life was kicking my focking ass :3

The next few days are awkward to say the least. Wade’s the only person he’s killed and ended up having a conversation with later that wasn’t a hallucination, Elektra, or dear old dad, so, you know. Never really knows what to say after these things.

But they still eat together, still work together, still sleep together, well, the odd times he does sleep, and he’s pretty sure Wade’s playing the silent game for his own damn benefit. But hey, if it means that he doesn’t have to talk about any of this, then he’s happy.

Now, though, it’s the night before the job, so they’re gonna have to meet in the middle somewhere. They’re playing chicken at this point and he’s bound and determined to not have to make the first move.

“So, what are you  _ wearing _ ?” Wilson asks, batting his stupid eyelashes, and Bullseye’s real damn surprised he made it this long without trying to start some conversation.

“Same thing I always do for jobs like this.”

“Well,” Wade pouts, “I need to know so I can match.”

Bullseye shrugs, “It’s not like we’re  _ actually  _ goin’ to the wedding. We’re there to kill someone and slip out before anyone notices.”

“Come  _ onnnn _ , I’m trying to segue into a montage, B. Just play along. For  _ me _ ?”

And then, to make matters worse, Wade pulls out his fucking cell-phone and opens up spotify, doesn’t even have to search for a song or anything, like he’s been planning this all day. Just hits play and all of the sudden, Pretty Woman’s blasting so loud it’s damn near blowing out the shitty smartphone speakers.

Wade sets the phone down on the table at the end of the bed and all but skips off to the bathroom, dragging one of his two suitcases behind him. Bullseye settles back on the bed, leaning against the headboard, fucking around with one of his knives.

This is, in all likelihood, the first step in getting things back to normal, or at least to whatever kind of borderline friendship they had before trying to do this job together. So, like it or not, he’s gonna end up watching whatever montage Wade has in mind.

First off, Wilson comes out in this blue floral suit, matching slacks and blazer. White shirt, dark tie. Twirls around once before stopping like he's about to give a bow.

"What do you think?"

Bullseye shrugs, gets right back to cleaning his nails with the tip of his knife.

"Yeah, it's probably too much for a summer wedding," Wade heads right back to the bathroom, halfway shouting over the stupid music.

Then he walks back out in this fucked up asymmetric frankensuit monstrosity, looks like when worlds collide, like someone's playing god and throwing shit in a blender to see what makes it out.

"Too Avant Garde?" Wade gestures with the sleeve that's about four inches too short.

And he can't help but laugh, "Do you really have to fuckin' ask? What  _ is  _ that thing?"

"Don't be mean! This is haute couture!"

He doesn't get the point of this. Well, he does, kind of. He gets the overarching point, that this is Wade trying to fold so they can start over. Doesn't mean he gets why they're doing  _ this _ specifically.

But Wade's walking out wearing this floor-length black dress, slit up the side, off the shoulder sleeves and Wilson's  _ weird _ , to say the least. But he's also  _ effortless _ and this is all so par for the course. Not even something they need to talk about.

He gathers one side of the skirt with his hand, real carefully, "I'd say we're queering heterosexuality, but I have no idea how that one would go over with this crowd."

Wade's not shy. Never is. But he's acting like this is something awful special.

So Bullseye crawls across the bed and cuts off the music, half worried that maybe Wilson's taking this whole job a little too seriously. Might be pinning too much on it.

"You look good," he whispers.

"Of  _ course  _ I do."

He's not so sure what's supposed to happen here, hates being so listless and uncertain, "I bet heels are a bitch to run in, though."

"If you're good enough, baby, we won't have to run," Wade sidles up to the end of the bed, stopped perfectly by the table, about a foot's gap between them.

"I don't mind, if," he swallows hard, "If you wanna wear the dress."

Neither of them are the type to talk about things. Just skirt around it so damn carefully, picking words just so, speaking in code. 

(Wade got it right off the bat that his name's  _ just  _ Bullseye, might as well pay back the favor.)

Wilson doesn't try and bridge the gap, but his hands come to rest at Bullseye's hips, "Jury's out on whether or not it's a Dress Day yet."

"Yeah?"

He finds himself drumming his fingers against the small of Wade's back, mirrored the act so mindlessly, so naturally.

"It's  _ not  _ a sex thing."

"Didn't say it was."

Wade's hands almost pull back from his hips, mouth open just slightly.

"Wasn't thinking it, either."

" _ Good,"  _ there's a little bit of bite to it.

Normally, it'd sting. Might be enough to throw him off for an hour or two on a good day, send him spiraling on a bad day, but for once, he's got just enough clarity to wager that Wade probably isn't snapping at  _ him. _

"Really does look good," he drawls, thumbing circles over Wade's hips.

It's  _ innocent _ , isn't trying to push it anywhere, he's too caught up in the leadup to the job.

Wade gets this devilish little smile, "You  _ like _ this, don't you? You want me to be your Bond girl,  _ huh _ ?"

" _ Fuck _ no," he snorts, "You know that's not what I'm into."

"Maybe  _ you're _ the Bond girl, then," Wilson laughs, "I've seen you in action, you graceful little fuck. But one of the evil ones, of course. You backwards walkover your way into Bond’s broken heart and flyaway with his dignity and whatever he needed to deactivate the doomsday device."

“You need a bar for a flyaway,” he says, without thinking.

“That’s not the point, B.”

He  _ knows _ it's not the point, but he also doesn't know what the point  _ is.  _ But now everything's catching up to him.

He's finally reached the stage of the game where he's dancing right on the edge of burnout, but it's all fine 'cos he's gonna slip right into the mindset he needs to get the job done come morning.

He works best when he's pushed to the edges of his limits, nerves frayed and raw, or maybe that's some lie he told himself enough times that he forgot it during one of those long jobs. Either way, he likes dancing on the edge of a knife blade.

Everything about him feels stretched thin, pulled taut, and he's vacant, but not so vacant he's worried. It's a good ache, one that makes him feel alive, even if he's barely even there, too focused on what's to come.

And then Wade kisses him on the forehead, all soft and gentle, barely even closing the gap between them.

"You're one of the good ones," Wilson laughs, like they aren't here to blow someone's head off on their wedding night.

"Are we alright now?" He asks, real quiet, "You aren’t mad at me anymore?"

Wade grabs him by the shoulders, so quick he almost flinches, "Bullseye.  _ Bullseye.  _ I was never  _ mad  _ at you. Shit was just weird there for a second and you seemed like you were pretty bugged the fuck out."

He sits there, all dumbstruck, just kind of blinking as he lets it all sink in. He's usually pretty good at parsing what people are feeling and why and what they're thinking. But he figures he does end up defaulting back to the gnawing sense that people hate him.

It's all just a mite too much to handle, so he gets up, as stiff and uncertain as he is. He needs to get out, just for a while, just 'til he can clear his head. Wade steps back, leaves him enough room to get to his feet.

"I'm going for a smoke," he mutters, heads for the balcony and fucking prays Wilson won't ask what he's doing when he starts climbing over the railing.

The night air is cool, not quite cold, and it feels good to be climbing down the side of a building. Feels like he's right where he's supposed to be. It's as easy as this, he never lost his way at all. Just got sidetracked by all that other bullshit, like friends and conversations and vacations.

When he's got his feet back on the ground, he digs out his pack of smokes and catches one between his teeth. Lights it up and just stays there, fucking around with the lighter. Flicking it open and shut and rolling his thumb over the spark wheel, watching the flame dance. Damn near as soothing as smoking itself.

He can't quite quit it now. Should've quit when he was an athlete, but he's too busy out here running the world with his winning smile and addictive personality. Doesn't help that he's been living on borrowed time since the day he was born.

Just keeps on working his way through the pack until he starts to feel more like himself. He walks while he smokes, always needs to be moving for some reason or another. Doesn't want to blank out and lose time, but he also doesn't want to botch such a fucking easy job just 'cos he can't stop thinking about everything else that's going on.

So he just walks and counts how many sidewalk tiles he's stepped on. 

Ends up right back at the hotel, always ends up right where he's supposed to be. He snubs out the cigarette against the side of the building and heads inside. Catches the elevator back up to his floor just in time to remember that he lost his goddamn keycard.  _ Again _ . Probably threw it at someone annoying him in the lobby.

He sighs, braces his arm against the door and rests his head against that, "Can you let me in? I lost my key."

"Of course you did," he can hear Wade laughing through the door, "I got you a spare."

He damn near collapses when Wilson pulls it open. Catches himself at the last minute, straightening up before slinking into the room.

"Don't lose it this time, please? This is an awful running gag, not funny at all," Wade holds it out for him and he grabs it real quick, tucks it away out of sight.

He oughta try to play nice, so he says, "I won't make any promises."

Wilson shuts the door behind him, makes it so there's barely a space between them at all, "And you're  _ going  _ to sleep tonight."

He sounds so fucking serious that Bullseye can't help but grimace. And then, he flips Wade off 'cos it's just too genuine if he doesn't.

It's a stupid move, 'cos Wilson lunges for his waist and hoists him right the fuck up off the floor. There's an agonizing five seconds of blind panic, trying to squirm his way out of Wade's arms like a cornered animal, but he settles down before he does any real harm. Just another one of those fucked up moments when he blinks out of reality.

He's still trying to escape, just not as frantically, when Wilson starts heading for the bed.

He's almost free, but Wade readjusts his grip last minute, "Jesus  _ Christ,  _ you're heavy!"

"That would be the adamantium."

"You're shitting me!" Wade stops dead in his tracks, "Like Wolverine?"

"Uh-huh," he  _ almost  _ twists his way out for the second time, "Now put me down already!"

"Shit, I want whatever they were having in the writers room when they decided on  _ that!  _ Did you get Weapon X'd? Are you a long lost X-Men spin-off sibling or child or whatever? Evil twin? Clone, maybe?"

He elbows Wilson hard in the sternum, not enough to crack it, but it'll hurt like hell. Wade yelps and drops Bullseye right away, comes with the bonus of shutting him up. It's not exactly a sore spot, but he  _ doesn't  _ like talking about it.

But he can't just leave it at this 'cos Wade's looking at him kind of wide eyed.

"Someone brought me to Japan a good while after  _ Daredevil  _ dropped me off that building. Put me back together so I could walk again."

It's more than he wanted to give up, but he  _ needs  _ to get this whole fucking situation back in his control.

Wade stares at him, just kind of blinking with his jaw slack.

And then he finally says, "Well  _ that  _ isn't very badass."

"No," Bullseye grits his teeth, "It's not."

Realizes right about then that he's still on the floor, so he pushes himself back up this feet. If he wasn't rooted stock still in place, he'd probably bolt right out the door, but staying upright is the most he can manage.

"Well," Wade scratches his chin for a second, brows furrowed, "I guess that would make you RoboCop, actually. He got like  _ fuuucked uuup  _ before they fixed him. He was like, dead."

"Wade," he chokes out, "I'm not in the mood."

"Okay, okay, sorry, I'm going to," he mimes zipping his lips.

And then he continues mumbling completely unintelligibly with his mouth closed. In the meantime, Bullseye just wanders over to the bed and flops over. Doesn't even bother with the blankets. He's in a mood and he wants to be fucking unconcious.

Wilson unzips his lips, "Woah, okay, I thought I'd have to wrangle you into bed like a feral cat."

"Fuck off," he mutters into the pillow.

"Can we spoon?"

"Depends."

He can feel the bed shift when Wade gets in, doesn't get too close, but he pokes Bullseye in the shoulder, "On what?

"On if you can be quiet and how pissed off I'm feeling."

"I'm sorry," Wade whispers, tracing his finger in a circle over Bullseye's shoulder, "This is fucking dysfunction junction and we're both in 'shifty medical procedure related trauma' station. I just make jokes so it doesn't suck so bad or hurt so much. But that's  _ me. _ "

He's too damn stubborn. Doesn't say anything at all. And Wade has to know he isn't asleep, knows he's a fucking insomniac on top of everything else.

It's downright terrifying having someone who knows so goddamn much about him. Knows all the meds he's on and when he oughta take them, and all the best tricks to get him to settle down. Like the thing he's doing now, tracing circles over and over on his skin.

He's in a bad way. Made a real fucking mistake.

"Please don't be mad at me," Wade whispers, "Or at least tell me if you are."

He stays nice and quiet, eyes unfocused and trained on the wall in front of him. Really should say something, but he doesn't know what. Won't admit that he's scared, really honest to god scared for once, and it's all over nothing.

" _ Fine _ , goodnight," Wilson sighs, resting his forehead against the base of his neck.

Bullseye reaches back behind himself, feeling out the curve of Wade's back. Something like a truce, a show of good faith.

* * *

He wakes up early, way before Wilson does. Needs to do his little ritual, as much as it makes him sound like a fucking head case. But he’s never had any delusions about being sane.

Starts off by polishing up his knives, checking that they’re all nice and sharp, nice and perfect. Then, he takes his gun apart and cleans it. Doesn’t usually use it unless he has to, but it’s an insurance policy, nice and weighted in his hands.

After that, he digs his costume out of his bag, slips it on like a second skin. Ends up staring at himself in the floor mirror, watches the double of himself pull on his white gloves, flexing his fingers. A little on the nose, yes, but it’s  _ comforting. _

He’ll have to pass on the belt, the holster. Can’t quite hide those under his suit, but he’s always got a couple tricks up his sleeve.

Wade’s still asleep; he checks just to make sure. Doesn’t like these kinds of things to have a witness. Feels like it might cancel everything out, even if he’s not too sure what they  _ do _ for him.

Then, he goes for the suit. One of the few things he kept when he went freelance, since he sure as shit isn’t going to get a suit fitted  _ ever _ again. There’s nothing he hates more than being poked and prodded, gawked at like some kinda  _ animal. _

But the fit is  _ nice. _

Top stretches just right over his shoulders, lays nicely. It’s black as midnight, washes him the hell out but he likes it that way. Same with the trousers; only complaint he’s got is that it sure doesn’t make it easy to bolt if things go south. 

He adds a shoulder holster, tucks his pistol into it. He’s showy, always has been, and it’s a custom piece even if he rarely uses it. White, sleek, clean. 

It’s a token, too. Helps him find his way back.

With this one, he’s not Bullseye. Not until it counts. He’s someone who’s good at parties, who can handle all the mind numbing small-talk without wanting to scream. If it wasn’t such a delicate job, he’d just be in and out. But it has to happen at the wedding, which means he has to draw the mark out, has to blend in.

You can’t even see the holster when he puts the suit jacket on. 

It’s been modified, careful slots for his knives, close to his heart. He slips each one into place, three perfect sets of three. They’re lightweight and perfect, his pride and joy, the only thing he ever bothers to get back. Couldn’t abide by an incomplete set.

He smiles, studying his reflection. Teeth sharp, crooked, but it’s something almost  _ charming.  _ Leaves his tie hanging loose, and he’ll get there  _ eventually _ , a white gash against black.

Straightens out his jacket once more, you’d never be able to tell.

Wade sits up behind him, leaning back against the headboard with his hands behind his head, “Well  _ helloooo nurse!” _

“Shut up,” he rolls his eyes.

“Oh, so now I’m not allowed to tell my fake significant other that he looks smoking as fuck?”

“Nope,” he deadpans, “You’re not.”

Wade clutches his heart with a sigh, “A disappointment for the ages.”

“You’ll live.”

“Will I? Will I  _ really _ ?” Wade laughs.

He tips his head to the side, sets to knotting his tie with his tongue between his teeth. Barely even registers when Wade slips off the bed, but he’s smart enough to leave Bullseye some space.

“What even are we, anyway?” Wade gets all smiley, “Significant others? Boyfriends?  _ Fiances?  _ Partners?”

“Partners in crime, maybe,” he mutters.

“Well, we can’t just tell all the good wedding goers  _ that,  _ can we? Someone might think we’re there to cause mischief!”

There’s too much money riding on this to back out and he sure as shit doesn’t want the reputation of someone who flakes out on jobs, but he’s never wanted to run more than he does now.

Coming up with a stupid cover story for a stupid idea to get a stupid job done is just one step closer to putting a name to whatever the fuck they’re doing. He wasn’t cut out for  _ any _ of this but god  _ fucking _ damn it, he can’t help getting caught up in loops, so he just keeps coming back to Wade  _ fucking _ Wilson and of course, of course, it looks like he’s a normal person who can do  _ relationships _ or whatever.

He needs to fake his death and leave the country. 

He needs some fucking xanax, even if it makes him feel like shit, it’ll be better than this.

And then Wade shuts the bathroom door, feels so fucking loud that he almost jumps out of his skin.

“No peeking!” Wilson sing-songs from the other side, “It’s bad luck if you see me before the ceremony!”

“I think that only counts if we’re the ones getting married,” he chokes out.

Doesn’t even wait for an answer, just stumbles into the kitchenette and grabs a glass to fill at the sink. Then, he digs his meds out of his bag. Lines them all up on the counter before picking up the first bottle and twisting the lid around and around with little success.

He laughs, frantic and desperate, ‘cos he’s so fucking wired he’s being beat by the child safety lock.

Then, he shuts his eyes and breathes in and out and in and out and gets it in one go.

Takes them all dutifully, one after another. He happens to  _ like  _ being able to function, thank you very much. After swallowing the last one, he just stays there, eyes closed, both hands wrapped around the glass. 

He must’ve been standing here a while, since it doesn’t even startle him when Wade grabs one of the pill bottles and rattles it.

“You really brought the whole party, huh? Uppers, downers, uh, anti-psychotics?”

He doesn’t mean to snarl, “I don’t take these for  _ fun. _ ”

“Not even the pain-killers?”

Turns around to look at Wade, dead serious, “What d’you think?”

“Meds don’t work for me,” Wilson says, real quiet, “They metabolize too fast. Functionally immortal, but cursed to a life of raw-dogging reality, the Wade Wilson story.”

“ _ Well _ , aren’t we a pair, then?”

“I dunno, I think we’re pretty good together.”

“Yeah?”

He’s not sure why he asks, but he does. Figures he needs some kind of reason to not up and bolt after the job’s done.

“Like Bill and Ted!” Wade gestures broadly, “Like James Dean and Sal Mineo! Like Ash Williams and his fucking chainsaw arm!”

Which makes him smile just a bit, and he really is fucked in the head ‘cos above all else, he still  _ likes  _ Wade fucking Wilson. He’s starting to even out, too, but there’s no way his meds have kicked in yet, which just leaves the concerning alternative that Wade just being  _ around _ helps him settle down.

He raises an eyebrow, “And which one of us is the chainsaw?” 

“We take  _ turns _ ,” Wade sounds more solemn than he ever thought possible.

And that’s enough to break him out of whatever spiral he’s on; ends up with his head thrown back laughing. It’s more than the joke even deserves and he sounds just a little desperate, just a little broken, but Wade doesn’t have any kind of smartass comment about it. He  _ never  _ does, not when it’s something like this.

“ _ Fuck,” _ he straightens up, whole body pulled taut, “We’re gonna be late.”

Wilson snorts, “Like  _ you _ could actually sit through a wedding service!”

“Looks suspicious if we’re just there for the party.”

“You think half the people at the reception aren’t just using this as an excuse for free food?” Wade shakes his head, but he still starts buttoning up his shirt.

Didn’t end up picking the dress, which is something Bullseye files away for later. But the suit looks nice and he’s got enough fucking context clues to tell that it’s probably red, because his life is all one big twisted irony and  _ apparently _ , he really does have a  _ type. _

And he doesn’t want to think about  _ that _ , so he spends a pathetic amount of time trying to figure out the least infuriating way to wear a newsies cap, because everything else he owns is too casual for a wedding and it’d be just his luck that somebody recognizes the scar on his forehead. Used to be damn near invisible in a crowd; still is, most of the time. 

But he doesn’t want anyone to pick him out at the reception and make this all harder than it has to be.

Then, he finds himself tying up Wade’s tie for him. Brings them together real close, but he’s alright with that. At least for now.

“You look like an extra for Peaky Blinders,” Wade whispers, tracing his thumb over the curve of Bullseye’s jaw, “But, like, I think I’m  _ into  _ it. Fucking handsome devil, you.”

“Well isn’t  _ that _ a loaded phrase?” He smiles, straightening out Wade’s shirt-collar.

"Bullseye,  _ please _ ," Wade strains, "I'm trying to be  _ sexy." _

"Work first, alright?"

Wilson laughs, makes him loosen up a little, "You little  _ tease!" _

-

Wade keeps his hand on Bullseye's thigh for the _whole_ cab ride to the wedding venue. Figures it makes them look the part of a couple, adds a little bit of accuracy even if he's nowhere near in the mood for this right now. He's not nervous, never is. Just filled with this almost unbearable sense of anticipation.

For all his jokes, Wilson's a professional and Bullseye trusts him to get a job done right. That's why he's sure that Wade's got some sort of reason to be doing this.

Once they arrive, Wade opens the door for him and offers Bullseye his hand. Goes along with it, just for show, even though he's the one with the invitation.

He fishes it out before they're even at the door, like if he has to take the time to find it, the whole jig'll be up. He's paranoid, yeah, and probably a little too generous when it comes to his idea of his reputation, but it feels better this way.

Hands it over to the guy posted outside the cathedral hall, just like he planned. Same as he planned everything, down to the letter, except for--

"And your name, sir?"

The  _ fucking  _ cover-story.

He's  _ not  _ stupid and he's  _ not  _ some green kid who's gonna get himself killed through his own incompetence. He's downright fucking ashamed he overlooked the  _ biggest  _ part of the job. Shouldn't let all these stupid fucking  _ feelings  _ get in the way.

"Bailey," Wade cuts in, real quick, "Bailey Wilson. But we usually call him B."

Wraps an arm around his shoulder and squeezes him tight, bumping their heads together, stage-whispering, "He's  _ shy _ ."

And, by sheer fucking luck, the guy doesn't think anything of it, just writes it down and says, "And you?"

"Don. And I'm  _ also _ a Wilson."

He scribbles that down, too, and looks back up, gesturing to the doorway, "Alright. Seat yourselves, the ceremony starts in fifteen minutes."

As soon as they're out of earshot, Bullseye hisses, "What the  _ fuck  _ was  _ that _ ?"

"You panicked," Wade squeezes his shoulder again, "I just helped you out a bit."

"Yeah, real fuckin' smart using your  _ actual _ name."

Maybe he's a little on edge for more reasons than just the fact it's real fuckin' stupid to use your real name on a job.

"Surname," Wade corrects, "And do you know how many people are out here named Wilson? Like half the Beach Boys, for one. And don't worry, I never leave home without my prop wedding ring! Our cover is airtight!"

Bullseye's still feeling all twisted up and awful inside, like everything in the whole damn world is wrong. But he decides to drop it before they draw any attention. They sit at the back, anyway, so no one gets too good of a look at them.

Barely makes it five minutes into the ceremony before he's going out of his fucking head. Has his legs crossed at the knees, tapping his foot mindlessly. Isn't paying attention to a single word being said.

And Wade reaches over, already wearing the fucking wedding ring, to cover his hands where they're resting in his lap. Taps his fingers against the back of Bullseye's hand, twice, three times. It's such an obvious invitation, the kind he'd never trust from anyone else.

But he  _ does  _ trust Wade and that's why they're in this situation, so he takes him up on the offer. 

He sandwiches Wade's hand between his own, lacing all three of them together as best he can. Sets to drumming his fingers, tapping away at the spaces between his knuckles. Wade doesn't ever move his hand, just lets Bullseye fuck around with it however he wants.

Well, he doesn't really mind when Wilson leans against his shoulder, head pressed into his cheek.

He tilts into the contact as much as he can, already moved on to tracing his thumb over the center of Wade's palm, nice lazy circles. And he’s not just dicking around. It’s keeping him together, keeping him focused, so he doesn’t go fucking crazy sitting here while the priest goes on and on and on.

He’s doing what he came here to do; his  _ fucking job. _

By now, he’s good at not being  _ obvious _ . Wade’s probably the only person in the room that notices how he shifts when the bride heads down the aisle. Gets just a little bit sharper, just a little bit more attentive.

She’s hanging off of her father’s arm. Smiling for the cameras and nothing more, like most of these types do. 

For all he knows, the father might be the client. Everything’s electronic, these days. Never have to see anyone’s face, never have to hear their voice. The bride’s only got a hit out on her ‘cos dear old dad retired a year back, giving her full reign of the company. 

And the groom?

He’s a trust-fund brat. Runs some stupid start-up for biometric implants under the guise of “mood tattoos” and doesn’t have parents around to try and kill him for his money. But it’s old, and there’s probably someone out there who thinks they could do better with it.

He’s all the way up at the front, shifting from foot to foot and grinning like an idiot. Seems like the nervous type, even from Bullseye’s vantage point at the back of the chapel. Might be easy to lead him off, once he’s drunk, but he’ll probably be too on edge otherwise. 

Could be fun, though. He likes a bit of a challenge.

Doesn’t care much about what they’re saying. He’s watching how they’re moving, even if it’s not as important with a job like this.

It’ll be easy to split them apart. Groom seems more invested than the bride. Bride probably knows this is more about business than pleasure. Which is a good start. Hell, it’s a  _ great _ start. 

Wade lazily knocks their knees together when everyone starts filing out for the reception, whispers, “Figure anything out?”

“Father might be the client. Retired, regrets it, wants the business back,” he loops his arm around Wade, smiling like there’s some private joke between them.

And then, Wade kisses his jaw, purrs right in his ear, “ _ Someone _ did his homework.”

“ _ Baby _ ,” he drawls, flushed more from anticipation than anything else, “People are startin’ to stare.”

“Oh my  _ god,”  _ Wade gasps, “Are you doing a Patrick Swayze bit?”

He gets up, pulling Wilson along for the ride, “Nah, you’re just makin’ a scene.”

“And you  _ love _ it, don’t you?”

“Mmm, not when we’re in a crowd, baby,” Bullseye drops his voice down low, walking arm in arm with Wade, seamlessly slipping into the crowd, “Bride’s probably gonna be expecting the worse; she knows enough about the family business to know the wedding’s for show. Groom might actually believe it, might be the easier of the two.”

“Well, isn’t  _ this _ quite the perfect little HBO original high production value tragic romance,” Wade laughs under his breath.

* * *

The reception venue isn’t far from the church at all. Real well guarded, too, so he figures  _ someone’s _ expecting something to happen. They don’t stick out too much, on account of the fact they’re dressed for the occasion, but they’re hugging the walls, watching everyone like a hawk. The kinda shit he used to do when Fisk was feeling particularly cheap and decided to rent him out like a bodyguard instead of an assassin.

But they get in without a hitch, just have to flash their invitation. He settles down a little bit after that, now that he knows he isn’t gonna get waved down in the fucking foyer and have to shoot his way out of here.

Wade stays nice and close to him, one hand resting against the small of his back and it’s as much for show as it is for keeping him in line. He  _ knows _ the drill; mingle with the crowd, make yourself unremarkable, everyone here’s operating under the assumption that they oughta know everyone else.

Everyone’s so damn concerned about getting every single little detail of an interaction  _ right _ that they’ll hardly even notice him.

But he’s still getting awfully fucked up over how much this feels like deja vu. Feels like he oughta know some of these people, but not in the same way as pretending you remember who that guy you met at a business meeting last year is. 

It feels like he’s back working for Fisk.

Which was a real fucking complicated situation.

Wilson smooths his thumb over Bullseye’s cheek, turns his head so damn gently until they’re looking right at each other, “Everything okay, sweetness?”

It’s the  _ job, _ it’s the goddamn motherfucking  _ job _ , but he closes his eyes like it’s real and lets Wade keep tracing over his skin, all nice and soothing.

“You lovebirds better be careful,” someone laughs, real dry, “Or you might make the happy couple jealous!”

“Look, man, I’m just trying to help him calm down. He doesn’t  _ like  _ parties.”

Well, he figures this is why he brought Wade along. And why he  _ likes  _ Wade. Doesn’t even care that he’s bugged the fuck out in the middle of a job. And he knows, deep down in his gut, that Wade won’t try and hold this over his head one day.

He snaps his eyes back open and glares at the fucker, just for good measure. Makes him smile all lazy-like when the guy shivers, but he straightens back up when a woman joins him.

“You don’t have to be  _ rude,  _ Daniel,” she clicks her tongue, slings her arms around his neck, “I’m Nancy, and this buzzkill here is Dan. And you two are?”

“Don, like I’m your boyfriend’s mirrorverse twin, and,” Wade pulls him in closer, one hand hooked around his hip, “Bertram, but we just call him B.”

“And we’re partners in crime,” Bullseye adds, just ‘cos the idea of them thinking Wade does all the talking for him makes his skin crawl, smiles all coy.

Nancy laughs at that, hides her smile behind her hand, “And how do you two know the newlyweds? Please be something interesting, everyone else here is boring me to death.”

“I just did an internship back in college,” Bullseye shrugs, knows to keep the lies simple enough that everyone just fills in the blanks, “And  _ he _ actually  _ likes _ things like this, but I’m the one that got the invite, so I’m here anyway.”

“Just wait ‘til everyone’s drunk,” Wade cuts in, “I can almost guarantee you  _ something  _ interesting will happen!”

Bullseye elbows him in the side. Might as well just come right out and say they’re here to kill someone. Cops are gonna come and they’re gonna ask if anyone saw anything and these two jackasses are gonna remember what that one guy had to say back at the very beginning of the reception.

But by then, they’ll be long gone, so he’s not too mad at Wade. He left calling cards like that when he was younger, cockier, wanted to put his name on everything so people would finally  _ call _ him it.

“Here’s hoping!” Nancy grins, “I don’t know how much more mingling I can take!”

“Well,” Wade gives a deep, pained sigh, “We’re just getting started in the mingling department. I can already tell it’s gonna be a long night.”

“Maybe you two can drive everyone away by being all codependent,” the boyfriend deadpans.

“Nancy, darling,” Wade takes her hand daintily, “If you’re ever feeling unloved because of mister affection police over there, just give me a call. We can have a girl’s night.”

She sighs dreamily, “My knight in shining armor!”

Then, she kisses the back of Wade’s hand, makes him gasp, “Miss Nancy ! What would our boyfriends say? How very scandalous!”

Nancy laughs again and Bullseye can’t help but hope that they won’t end up having to clean up any witnesses, just for Wilson’s sake. Seems like the guy can make friends  _ anywhere _ and somehow, he’s still got some soft edges left.

“Who knows! Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer one day,” she calls as she waves them off, mixing back into the crowd.

As soon as they’re gone, he hisses, “I thought you decided my name was  _ Bailey.  _ We have to keep our story  _ straight.” _

“No one’s gonna notice, B. You’re  _ such _ a wallflower, it’s like your secondary mutation is causing selective amnesia! Besides, I know you’re  _ weird _ about names; I’m just keeping it fun and sexy and interesting!”

He frowns. Yeah, Wade’s got a  _ point _ , but it still feels like too much of a risk. Even if they’re only here for a little while, as long as it takes to get the job done. Maybe he oughta loosen up a mite. Wilson’s been doing this about as long as  _ he _ has.

“Come on,” Wade pulls him in close, kisses him on the cheek, “Just try to have a little fun?”

He  _ will _ be having fun by the time they get to the actual meat of the gig, but right now he’s just listless, out of his fucking element. Whole damn job has a bad feel to it, but if he skipped out on anything that made him feel all pent up and nervous, he’d be flat broke. Intuition ain’t worth shit when you’re fucked in the head.

“Yeah, alright, I’ll try.”

* * *

He gets introduced as: 

  1. Beauregard to some old socialite and his caretaker, neither one part of the family on paper, but there’s some tie or another here. He’d have a field day following the money trail from person to person if he had the time.
  2. Brandon to a woman he knows jumped ship from Fisk’s operation, but if she recognizes him, she sure as shit doesn’t let on. Might even figure he’s here for her, but she’s not important enough for that.
  3. Byron to a man and his bored looking son, neither of which seem all that interested in what Wade has to say. Not that Wilson can ever take a hint. They did finally get to escape when the kid asked _since when is Freddie Krueger gay?_ giving the man an excuse to drag him away for being rude before Wade could even finish his sentence on why Nightmare On Elm Street 2 qualifies as homoerotic.



And by then, he’s about to up and call it quits. Or at least try to get blitzed at the reception bar.

But he needs to stay clear-headed for the job. Needs to keep playing this stupid fucking game until they get a chance to talk to the happy couple. If he can just make it that far, he can figure out how to split them apart so he can get the job done and get  _ out _ of here.

“Need a break?” Wade asks, all gentle-like.

“Something like that.”

“Well, whatever  _ that _ means, I’m still calling a timeout. You need to get your head back in the game! It’s just like High School Musical said, you gotta getcha, getcha, getcha head in the game!”

“What are you? A fucking little league coach?” 

“I prefer to think of myself as your life coach, actually.”

He rolls his eyes, knows damn well Wilson won’t drop it until he goes along, though. So, he lets Wade lead him out of the crowd until they’re hugging the walls, watching the whole song and dance go on.

It’s more comfortable like this, being able to watch everything just out of reach. Figures he’ll always be thinking like a sniper, always wants a vantage point. And now that it’s a bit easier to breathe, he’s starting to settle a bit. Isn’t having a good time, but he’s not exactly having a  _ bad _ time either.

“How the  _ fuck _ do you do it?” He mutters, doesn’t even really mean to.

“I mostly just keep talking non-stop so no one looks at me too much,” Wade shrugs, “And sometimes I say funny shit. Also, I’m an extrovert,  _ apparently,  _ if free personality tests dot com is to be trusted.”

Doesn’t help him much, but it’s one of those weird moments when Wade’s almost halfway  _ genuine _ , so he figures anything else he could say might fuck it up. Not that he cares if Wade’s genuine or not, fuck knows  _ he’s _ never gonna show his full hand, even if it’ll get him killed.

Instead, he just slings an arm around Wade’s waist, fingers drumming against his hip. It’s easier to get away with watching everything like this. Looks suspicious if they’re just standing there, but if they’re having a  _ moment,  _ well, no one’s gonna interrupt that.

Maybe Wade gets the idea, or maybe, as much as he fucking dreads it, Wade just wants  _ this _ . Either way, he leans into it, holding Bullseye’s free hand.

“What are you looking for?” Wade barely whispers, just loud enough for the two of them.

He damn near sighs with relief. Means that this is just part of the job and not something Wade would want  _ all  _ the time if it weren’t for Bullseye not being that kinda guy. 

“I’ll know when I see it.”

The newlyweds are still making their rounds, working their way through all the guests. They aren’t joined at the hip, but there isn’t much space between them, either. They’re a tandem act, never moving without the other.

“Gotta get them apart,” he adds.

“You take the guy and I take the gal? We can race, see who’s faster.” 

Bullseye can feel the smile tugging on Wade’s lips from where their cheeks are pressed together.

“Careful, though. Job’s  _ specifically _ for one and one only.”

“Careful’s my middle name, babe.”

He’s pretty damn sure something’s gonna go catastrophically wrong. Usually feels that way, but it’s worse whenever Wade’s around. Sometimes things go so fucking perfectly right, though, and he still  _ trusts _ Wade. Even if he maybe  _ shouldn’t. _

“I’m  _ trusting _ you,” he whispers, doesn’t even mean to say it aloud, “Don’t fuck this up for us, alright?”

“You worry too much,” Wilson gives him a little peck on the cheek, “I’ll be good for you, on my  _ very best _ behavior, yeah? But don’t  _ you _ have  _ too _ much fun with the lucky groom, I might get  _ jealous _ !” 

“ _ Hey,”  _ it’s sharper than he means it to be, “This is  _ strictly business. _ ”

“It’s jokes, okay, it’s all jokes! You remember what those are?” Wade teases, just soft enough he won’t get too mad, “It just sounds  _ soooo _ much like an awful direct to Amazon erotica thriller. Partners in crime-- _ and love!-- _ race against time to seduce away their two marks! And ‘cos it’s direct to Amazon, one of us wouldn’t even have to be rule 63’d! They love their weird and often fetishistic m slash m on Kindle these days!”

Bullseye frowns, furrows his brow, tracking the groom’s movements across the room, “I don’t think he’d be into it. He’s the one who thinks this is all  _ real,  _ remember?”

“There’s gotta be  _ some _ way to get him alone! You’re a smart cookie!”

Wouldn’t exactly use those words but yeah, he’s sharp as a tack. And doesn’t need a fucking pep talk. And already had some ideas in mind for splitting up the happy couple. But he’s not gonna tell Wilson any of that. 

Wade breaks away first, sees him off with one last kiss on the cheek. Bullseye watches as he weaves through the crowd, acting all casual while he’s trying to wipe the thin layer of chapstick off his face. He wants to see what Wilson’s approach is, needs to account for that.

But it isn’t much of an approach at all. Just walks right up to the bride and starts chattering away. Bullseye can’t make out anything that’s being said, but Wade looks animated as hell. Probably fawning over her, stroking her ego.

Isn’t what  _ he’d _ do, but it’ll probably work.

Wilson always knows just what to say to make someone feel  _ special _ and half the damn time he means it, too. There’s a lot more to him than anyone thinks, seems to keep it like that on purpose. Which Bullseye  _ gets.  _ More than Wade  _ knows. _

It’d look suspicious if he went after the groom right away. Needs to make it look natural. Everyone here knows he’s with Wade and now Wade’s chatting up the bride and he can’t exactly just sidle up to the groom after all that.

He needs an opening. Needs an in.

Nothing that’ll stick out in the minds of everyone a couple hours later when they’re being interviewed. It has to be subtle, careful, and that seems like it’s more than he can manage right about now.

The meds are definitely  _ helping _ , but he’s still fucking out of it. Hasn’t slipped into the kind of calm he gets when he’s working.

And maybe he didn’t  _ take _ this job just to prove he could still do this kind of thing, but that’s what it is  _ now. _ Wants to know he can still keep it together when he has to pretend to be a  _ real  _ person. Some kind of fucked up test.

“Looks like you got stood up, too?”

It doesn’t register at first until he looks up ‘cos he’s never heard the groom  _ speak. _ Read all the fuck about him, more than he needed to, knows exactly what he looked like from age sixteen ‘til now, but he’s never heard his voice.

Takes a whole helluva lot of trouble off his hands, though. Almost has to laugh, but he doesn’t.

“ _ He’s _ the social one.”

“Well,” the groom joins him against the wall, real fucking close, shoulders almost brushing, “I’m glad you could make it.”

He goes stock still, every muscle in his body pulled taut as a drum. Might just be saying it to be polite, might think he’s someone else, might have fucking  _ recognized _ him, just wanted to rub it in his face before cornering him. 

If he falters, the jig is up and the whole job goes fucking sideways. It'll be a bloodbath and his pay will get docked for the mess and it'll all be right on his head. His fault. He  _ can  _ be clean, quiet, get the job done right. There's a reason he's one of the best. And that's what scored him this job.

"You're a man of few words, I guess," the groom laughs, nice and easy, says he doesn't  _ know  _ yet.

Bullseye shrugs, "Don't have much to say.  _ He  _ talks enough for two. Think I like it that way."

" _ Really?!"  _ The groom snorts, "Not getting a word in edgewise gets  _ old. _ Way faster than you think."

So he was  _ wrong _ . Maybe he got some of it right, but the groom isn't as blissfully in love as he thought. Never seems to work out like that, though. Should've known.

But he's still in control, still got a handle on things.

"We work well together. He's a good partner and he  _ understands  _ me, better than anyone else," he says, and it's all part of the game but the best lies have a little bit of truth to them, "But…"

"But you need some space, yeah?"

And that's when Bullseye knows he's got him.

Rubs the back of his neck all sheepish-like and looks down at his feet, "I feel awful saying it…"

"I understand, I really do."

The groom loops his fingers around his wrist, gentle and hesitant and Bullseye's got everything right where he wants it to be. It was too fucking easy, might even make him nervous, but he’s pretty damn sure that this is the first time where something’s exactly what it looks like.

The groom circles his thumb over Bullseye’s wrist, feeling out the jackhammer beat of his pulse, “We don’t have to swap names. No one has to know.”

He wonders, for one bitter, awful second where he forgets that this is about the  _ job, _ how many times this has happened. How many other nameless guys are out there, keeping this secret for the happy groom. 

But none of that’s important. This is his  _ opening. _

He meets the groom’s eye and smiles just so, kind of sad, kind of lonely. And the groom smiles back, doesn’t even know he’s hooked. Thinks  _ he’s  _ the predator here, the one on the hunt, the one in  _ control. _

The groom moves carefully while he’s leading Bullseye away from the reception. Moves like he’s doing just what he’s supposed to, all confident-like, so nobody pays much mind. It’s  _ good, _ means it’ll take longer for anyone to find the body.

Bullseye knows the reception hall inside and out, too. Looked over the floorplans no less than a hundred times while he was trying to avoid Wade. So he knows exactly where the groom is taking him, soon as they turn down one of the more secluded hallways. The one the waitstaff uses, so they’re outta sight, outta mind, and he almost has to laugh at how fucking perfect it is.

This guy’s grand fucking plan was to take him back to one of the break rooms meant for the people no one ever notices for a quick fuck and then get back to his  _ wife. _

There’s no one in there, all out at the party making sure everything’s running smoothly. Which means it’s probably close to dinner, too. Buys them even more time to get the fuck out of here after the job’s done.

He oughta text Wade, tell him that he  _ won, _ but any little thing could throw off the momentum here. The famous ones are always  _ real _ touchy about their affairs. 

“You sure this is alright?” He breathes, and he’s good at playing this game; the groom doesn’t even know how  _ pathetic _ this is.

“Yes, yes, it’ll all be done before anyone notices we’re gone.”

_ It sure fucking will be. You don’t know what the hell you’re in for. _

But the groom takes his other wrist, just as gentle, leads the dance one step at a time until he’s backed Bullseye into a wall. Knocks their hips together,  _ all _ riled up and ready to go, and leans in for the kill. 

Doesn’t quite make it to kissing his neck before Bullseye tangles a hand in his hair and  _ purrs _ , “I’m here to kill you. Sure you wanna do that?”

It doesn’t  _ matter. _ Either he’ll be dead in the next five minutes, or, annoyingly, he’ll get away and it’ll be pretty damn obvious what Bullseye was trying to do, anyway.

The groom goes stock still, pulls back a little bit, “Wh- _ what?” _

“Y’know,” he points a finger-gun at his temple, mimes pulling the trigger and lets his head loll, eyes rolled back, tongue hanging out.

“What? No, you can’t  _ do _ that!”

Bullseye’s used to pleading, but this is  _ new, _ “I mean, I  _ can. _ It’s  _ easy!” _

The groom takes one nervous step backwards, like he might try to run, but that’s  _ fine. _

_ Go ahead. Try and run. See how far it gets you,  _ he licks his lips. 

Already slipped a hand under his jacket, already got a hold of one of his throwing knives.

But the groom  _ doesn’t _ run. Just leans his head back and fucking  _ headbutts _ the shit out of Bullseye. Makes his vision white out for a second and he’s downright astounded that he didn’t go through the drywall. Probably bit off the tip of his tongue, but that’s  _ fine. _ He can deal with that later.

The groom looks dazed,  _ somebody’s _ blood running down into his eyes. Could be either one, since Bullseye’s got a couple metal plates screwed into his skull.

He kicks the groom’s feet out from under him, watches him topple over with his eyes bugged out like a fucking cartoon character. Doesn’t even try to catch himself, just lies there on the floor.

“Whatta,” Bullseye holds up a finger, telling the groom to stay fucking  _ quiet, _ and spits a mouthful of blood, damn near whites out again from a sudden jolt of pain so he’s probably cracked  _ another _ tooth, “What tha’ fuck was that?”

“You’re gonna  _ kill _ me!”

“I’m not a fuckin’  _ asshole,”  _ he growls, kind of wet and hoarse, “Woulda made it  _ quick.” _

But that was mostly ‘cos he was on a time constraint. Still is, and everything’s going fucking sideways. He’s pissed the fuck off and couldn’t take his time even if he wanted to.

“Yeah, like  _ that  _ makes a difference,” the groom gets all shrill, whiny.

Bullseye sidesteps around him, kicks him once for good measure so he won’t try and get up. Isn’t exactly steady about it, since his head’s spinning. Keeps stumbling around like he’s drunk but there’s not gonna be any witnesses left after he takes care of this.

There’s an abandoned champagne flute on one of the counters and he’s sure that’ll do the trick alright. Doesn’t really want to use one of  _ his  _ knives on a guy that’s gotten under his skin this bad.

He drops it the first time, can’t quite seem to grab it right, turns around empty-handed and spits, “Fuckin’  _ christ _ , look what you did t’me! Can’t even pick shit up right!”

The groom makes his first smart decision of the day and keeps his fucking mouth shut.

Now, he’s got a choice. Try and pick up the broken champagne flute off the goddamn floor, or find something  _ else. _ And he isn’t too keen on humiliating himself any further, even if the only guy that can see it doesn’t have long for this world.

So he starts opening drawers. Sure, anything would do, but he wants something simple, something that  _ won’t _ look like the one guy on earth who can do the kinda shit he does was here, and, most important of all, something that’ll  _ hurt. _

He’d kill for a barbecue fork to shove right through one of the groom’s cocky bedroom eyes, but this joint’s too upscale for that.

“Wh-what are you doing?” The groom asks, reaching the bargaining stage of things, “You don’t need to start digging around, it’s fine. What are you looking for? I can help you find it.”

“You just don’t  _ get it _ , do you? It’s nothin’ personal. I don’t even know who you  _ are. _ ”

That’s a lie, but he knows it’ll hurt the fucker. Get him right in his pride. But he’s starting to get real fed up with all of this, digs his nails into his palms, knuckles white from the effort.

“I, I, I,” the groom skips like a broken fucking record, “I have a  _ wife!” _

Bullseye laughs, head thrown back, “You think that means much’a anything? You just brought me down here to fuck me! Maybe if you weren’t so keen on sleeping around, we wouldn’t  _ be  _ in this situation!”

“What’s  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

He snarls, slams a fist down on the counter, “It means you weren’t even the first--”

He stops dead in his tracks, blinks once, twice, ‘cos his phone’s fucking ringing.

“‘Scuse me,” he says, glaring at the groom, “Just a sec. Hold on.”

And he fishes the phone out of his inner blazer pocket, manages to only  _ almost _ drop it once. Then, he clears his throat and spits out another clot of blood before answering it.

“Heeeeey babe,” Wade singsongs, “Did you miss me? I bet you missed me! I know I missed  _ youuuuu! _ ”

“Not now, I’m busy,” he shoots the groom another look, tells him not to even think about moving.

“Aw, B, I thought you’d be happy to hear from me!”

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, “I  _ am _ happy, alright? Just in the middle’a somethin’.”

“Well, don’t hang up yet! I have good news!  _ Really _ good news! We can  _ finally _ ditch this lame-o party like you wanted to! I just  _ illed-kay  _ the  _ ide-bray! _ ”

“ _ ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME?!” _ Bullseye damn near drops the phone, wants to  _ scream. _

“Hey,” Wilson gets all serious, “What’s wrong? You sound like shit, B.”

“Well, I’m fuckin’ concussed and got another broken tooth ‘cos the  _ groom _ decided to  _ headbutt _ me and now you’re tellin’ me I don’t even get to save my dignity by shuttin’ him up forever?!”

“Did you really have that much dignity to start with?” Wade laughs.

“Shut the  _ hell _ up.”

“Alright, alright, I’m shutting up! Geez,” Wilson’s voice shifts, like he’s addressing a studio audience, “ _ Bullseye, _ am I right? Can’t live with him, can’t live without him.”

He flicks his eyes back towards the groom, makes sure he’s still behaving. And he  _ is. _ Hasn’t moved a muscle, but now he’s looking all pleading and hopeful, and Bullseye really  _ fucking _ hates this. 

“You mean I gotta let this pathetic sack of shit  _ live? _ ” He asks, watching the way the groom’s face twists, how he’s right on the verge of crying.

“I guess that depends on if you want the money or not. I, for one, say we should take it and go shack up somewhere nice for a while. No use getting too caught up in things and ruining it forever, this isn’t  _ The Usual Suspects, _ B.”

“Hold on,  _ hold on, _ this isn’t a ‘one last job and I’m out’ deal, alright? This is a fuckin’ Tuesday for me.”

“I know,” Wade says, nice and even, “But I thought that sounded cool.”

Bullseye drags a hand down his face, “Okay. Glad we’re clear on that. Still think I should let this fucker live?”

“We could always hire another hitman to get rid of him before he talks!”

And that sounds pretty damn good to him, at least as far as compromises go, so he says, "Alright. Fine."

"It doesn't  _ sound _ fine, but I'll make it up to you, baby, yeah? We'll go back to the hotel and get whatever you want for dinner and I'll make up for all of this. How's that sound?"

"Sounds good," he whispers.

"Maybe I'll even let you kill me. Would that make you feel better, babe? 'Cos I have to admit that pen thing you did was pretty fucking gnarly, if I do say so my--"

" _ Wade. _ "

Doesn't mean to say his name and it's yet another fucking reason why he oughta just kill the groom, but he wants his money and even more scary than that, he wants to keep Wade happy, wants them to have some time together.

"Okay, okay, I'm getting back to work," he can practically hear Wade's eyes rolling, "I'll see you back at the hotel, love you, bye!"

He sighs, "Love you, too."

Kind of did it on reflex, if he's telling the truth. Just seemed like something he oughta do. But the fucker on the floor is looking at him all bug-eyed, makes him squirm.

"The fuck are you starin' at? Course I said it back."

"No, no, I wasn't, I swear, I wasn't staring at you," the groom does his best to scramble backwards while still laying flat on the floor, "Please, please don't kill me."

He grits his teeth, almost whites out from the crack in his tooth, regrets ever agreeing to Wade's stupid little race. Nothing good ever comes from playing games on a job. He should know by now that this kinda shit only works on your own time.

"Yeah, about  _ that… _ "

The groom makes a pathetic little keening noise, shaking like a prize winning Chihuahua at a dog show. Fucking around with his head, seeing how damn scared he is, almost makes letting him live worth it.  _ Almost. _

"Oh, don't be like  _ that _ ," he clicks his tongue, shakes his head, "Really doesn't suit a nice man like you. Anyway, there's been a change in plans, weren't you paying attention, dumbass? I'm lettin' you go."

"Wh-what?" 

"I dunno how else to spell it out for you. You heard me."

The groom's face lights up  _ right  _ quick, and drops even faster. Must figure this is a trick. But he's never been one for these kinds of tricks, not even when he's trying to make someone talk. It’s so fucking passe, acting like you’re the type to let ‘em go if they just beg you hard enough.

“Come on, then,” he says, nudging the groom’s leg with the toe of his boot, “Get up. You have a party to get back to.”

The groom jack-knifes forward like a puppet on a string, wheezing and whining something awful despite only barely sitting up. He’d call it pathetic, but everyone’s been there. Got the shit kicked outta you and now you’re caught in between the adrenaline high and when you can crawl back home and max out your pain meds.

But he’s not quite so sympathetic that he’ll help the groom up, though. If he was  _ that _ far gone, he’d just have to ask Wilson to take him out back and put him out of his misery.

“What will I tell my  _ wife?”  _ The groom  _ wails, _ head buried in his hands.

“It’s  _ always _ about the wife with you, huh?” He rolls his eyes, “You think you’re gonna win the husband of the year award or somethin’? Don’t forget why you’re in this bind in the first place, buddy.”

The groom finally, finally, looks him in the eye with this awful snarl, and if this loser wasn’t laid out on the floor right now, he’d be half worried he’d get another concussion for his troubles, “I  _ love _ her.”

_ “Oh nooooo, how will I ever tell my wife I tried to fuck some guy in a storage room and he tried to murder meeeee?  _ Anyway, she’s dead. So, I figure that solves a couple of your problems.”

“You… You killed her?” The groom damn near deflates, shoulders sagging, face all twisted up.

“Not me,  _ duh,” _ he shakes his head, “I’ve been with you the whole time! My  _ partner  _ killed her. We were having a race, y’know. Things get competitive right quick but I think we make it work alright.”

“You  _ killed _ her and you expect me to just get up and live with the fact that I’m the one that  _ survived?” _

“Oh, so now you  _ want _ me to kill you?” He raises an eyebrow, cocks his hip out to the side.

They’re so far back in the venue that he can’t even tell if anyone’s found the bride yet. It’s gonna be chaos once they  _ do _ find her, gonna make it easy to slip right out. And he’s starting to get annoyed, would’ve rather left as soon as he got off the phone, but he’s stuck dealing with the whiny sack of shit groom babbling away about how  _ no, _ he _ didn’t _ change his mind and  _ does  _ want to live. 

The only reason he’s sticking around is because he can’t abide by a job half done and coaching the groom on what to do has, as much as he hates it, become a  _ job. _

Maybe he oughta branch out and not give in to his compulsions or whatever shit his shrink says, but this’d be a helluva place to start and he’s  _ really _ not in the mood.

The groom’s moved on to sobbing, in the meantime, real ugly, snot-nosed and frantic, “Why aren’t you saying anything?! Please don’t kill me, I didn’t mean it!”

“Hey, hey, no, no, no, don’t  _ cry  _ now, don’t start all that _ ,”  _ Bullseye crouches down next to the groom, rests a hand on his shoulder, “Listen to me, ‘kay,  _ listen _ .”

And the groom looks up at him, all doe-eyed like a deer in fucking headlights. 

“Right about now, you’re worth more alive. So stop crying, and stand up.”

“What am I gonna tell everyone?” He chokes out.

“Tell ‘em you got  _ lucky _ ,” Bullseye tops it off with a wink and a smile.

The groom still looks kinda dazed, so he pats him on the cheek, “C’mon, this is  _ easy. _ ”

And then, to really drive his point home, Bullseye gets right back up. Does it a little too fast, though, and the whole world spins out, makes him forget where his feet are and does  _ nothing _ to improve his mood. He doesn’t quite fall over, so at least there’s some fucking shreds of his dignity left.

“Fuckin’ hell, you got me  _ good,” _ he growls, digs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets in a desperate attempt to push away this goddamn fucking headache.

“Are, uh, are you gonna be okay to go?” The groom asks, and it’s damn near enough to push him over the edge, money be damned.

“Don’t fuckin’  _ patronize _ me, you  _ pathetic _ little--”

But that’s his cue to leave ‘cos the fucking fire alarm goes off. Kinda hoped he’d be on his way out before it got to  _ this _ point ‘cos the flashing lights and sirens sure as shit ain’t doing anything to  _ help _ him.

He hasn’t had a job go this far south in a good while and  _ that _ hurts more than anything else.

So, he writes off the groom as a lost fucking cause and dips out of there as quick as he can. And usually, he’s real fucking good with directions, always knows how to get exactly where he wants to be, but he’s more than a little banged up, doesn’t have his head screwed on right.

Each time the alarm swells, it feels like a goddamn icepick in his brain. Might even be choking back some stupid fucking angry tears, because  _ of course, of course, _ this happens every damn  _ time. _ He either breaks down completely or locks up or does  _ both,  _ soon as anything starts going off course.

But, the groom is still somewhere in the building and there’s a good chance he might fucking  _ see _ Bullseye completely lose his shit, so he oughta get the hell out of dodge. Not that he knows where he’s  _ going _ , ‘cos for all the time he spent memorizing the goddamn floor plans, he’s  _ lost.  _ Can’t even trace back the route they came down, and for a second, he’s all caught up in wondering if this is how everyone  _ else _ feels.

Confused, all turned around, no idea where to  _ go. _

Fucking miserable, almost feels like he’s doing them a favor.

But let’s take it one step at a fucking time. Get to the end of the hallway. Pick a card, any card, left or right. It’ll take him  _ somewhere. _ At least that’s still a given.

He picks left and ends up in the reception hall.

It’s always kind of funny how everything tailspins when it all goes to shit. Couldn’t just leave all easy-like, had to tear the place to shreds. But the lights are still flashing and the alarm’s still cutting into him like a knife. 

If he wanted to feel like  _ this, _ he would’ve taken the club job in Moscow.

But he  _ doesn’t _ , ‘cos even if he’s something like a masochist, he’s not  _ this _ type of masochist. The whole point is to get clarity and he sure as shit ain’t getting that when it feels like his brain is bleeding out of his ears.

Maybe, back when he  _ had _ a plan, it would’ve been to walk on outta here and blend in with the crowd. Isn’t gonna happen now, though. He’s tired, run ragged, pissed the fuck off, and more importantly, sticks out like a sore thumb with his busted nose.

Now that he’s in the reception hall, though, it’s a helluva lot easier to find a way out. Isn’t such a fucking maze, and he knows where the access doors are. And no one’s left to ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing, which just makes everything a little more painless.

* * *

When he slips out, finally gets back on the street, all he wants to do is  _ stop. _ Breathe for a while. But he’s too close to the venue, looks like a stray wedding guest. Probably should’ve expected this kinda exit, but he  _ didn’t, _ so he doesn’t have any clothes he can shed in the name of better blending in.

Which just means he’s gonna have to rely on speed and subtlety. It’ll look too suspicious if he does it here, so he heads a couple blocks away before scaling up the side of a building. Unless they bring out fucking  _ choppers, _ no one’s gonna spot him.

He could take a breather now, but if he stops, he’ll probably just get  _ stuck.  _ Needs a healthy dose of momentum to keep himself up and functioning. So he just keeps going, powers through the headache and how bad his head’s spinning. Just keeps running like his life depends on it, jumps between rooftops without so much as a pause ‘cos it’s second nature by now.

And  _ yeah _ , he can’t hear sirens anymore, means he’s far enough from the venue that he could stop, but stopping means admitting that he’s got no fucking idea what to do next. Can’t get his thoughts to slow down, can’t get ‘em in order, and he’s gonna have to talk to his shrink about that but that’s  _ way _ more of a long term plan than he can handle right now.

So he does slow down at least, to try and get his head screwed on right.

Just gotta stay here and present and all that shit. Ground yourself in your surroundings or whatever.

But from the looks of his surroundings, he’s also got no fucking idea  _ where _ he is. Which is yet another level of humiliation added on top of how badly he’s fucked this job up.  _ Sure, _ everyone has off days, but he’s a goddamn  _ professional. _

The way he looks at it, he figures there’s at least  _ one _ perk to working with someone else, and that’s why he pulls out his phone and calls Wilson. So much for dignity.

Wade picks up on the first ring and shouts, “Where are you?!”

“I’m  _ lost.” _

“Forreal?” Wade laughs so loud it blows out his damn speaker, makes him wince, “I thought that was, like, part of your gimmick! Y’know, one of the nitpicky minor powers that never makes it on trading cards, like your weird knack for memorizing floor plans!”

Bullseye groans, tries to push away the headache with his free hand, “Cut me some fuckin’ slack, alright? I’m concussed  _ and _ had to deal with the fuckin’ fire alarm scrambling my brains.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll be nice for you, baby,” Wade whispers, “Also, just pretend I’m twirling a phone cord around my fingers right now, I promise it makes the mental picture better.”

He groans, digs his nails into the meat of his palm. Sure as shit isn’t in the mood to deal with all of Wade’s  _ antics _ right now, but yet a-fucking-gain, he needs some…  _ help. _

“Can you just come get me?”

"Yeah, sit tight. I'll come get you."

He hangs up after that, already wore out his fucking patience for conversations today. Just wants to go back to the hotel and pop a couple pain pills and sleep for god knows how long, concussion be fucking damned. 

He's slept them off before and he's still kicking. Can't do too much more damage. And, well, it's not like he's playing the long game, anyway. He's always been self destructive; it's bound to catch up with him one of these times.

As it is, he's already dead on his fucking feet. Decides against sitting on the edge of the building, 'cos he's already trying to pass the fuck out and last thing he needs is to fall head over heels off a rooftop.

Nah, he'll sit back and wait for Wilson and try to ignore how heavy his head feels and how tired he is. Even if he wants to be dangling his feet off the edge and kicking his legs against the side of the building.

If he wasn't so used to crashing like this, he'd almost think he was drugged. But, the adrenaline's wearing off and he usually gets tired halfway through the day with the cocktail of meds he's on, and the day he's had doesn't help. 

Whatever. It'll all be over soon enough. He just needs to stay  _ grounded.  _

So he starts gathering up gravel by his feet, flicking it across the way to the next building over. Doesn't want to draw any attention, though, so he avoids the windows. 

And he just keeps counting each little piece of gravel. Has to start over a couple times 'cos he lost track or spaced out. But he makes it to fifty four and then on fifty five, he manages to hit Wade in the fucking forehead. 

"Ow!" Wade yelps, pulling himself all the way up onto the rooftop, "That was  _ not  _ the thank you I was expecting!"

"You're the one who said you'd make things up to me!"

Wade wipes away the trail of blood dripping down his forehead, the little cut already healed up, "Oh, yeah, I  _ did  _ promise that, didn't I? What'll it be? Dinner? A night on the town? Something a little more private back at the hotel? And yes, viewers, I'm asking you to text in now at home."

Bullseye groans, screws his eyes shut, "Not really in the mood for anything tonight, Wilson."

"Well, the hotel's booked through the week and our direct deposit should hit tomorrow, so I'm not complaining about a slow night."

And then Wade reaches out and rests his hand on Bullseye's shoulder. Doesn't shrug it off, just lets him rub his thumb in little circles over Bullseye's back.

"Let's hit the road, Jack!"

* * *

Somehow they make it back to the hotel. It's a fucking miracle, considering Wade doesn't drive him up the fucking wall and he doesn't go into homicidal migraine fueled rage. All in all, it's the one and only success of the day.

Wade gets him all the way into the lobby, ushered into the elevator, and usually he'd hate being  _ helped  _ like this, but it really isn't his  _ day _ today. 

"Sorry," Wade tells the other people on the elevator, keeps him steady with a hand on his shoulder, "My boy's more of a lightweight than he thinks.

It's not like any of them care, but he knows by now that Wade's all about appearances. Always wants to play a part.

When they make it back to their room, he heads to the bathroom. Just plans on getting himself reigned back in, changing out of his suit, but he only makes it to taking off his gloves and untying his tie before he folds over and pukes in the sink.

It's gonna be a bad night.

Doubly so 'cos Wade decides to come poke his head in the bathroom, catches him trying to wash out his mouth and starts imitating a goddamn ambulance siren.

"Woah there, are you sure you're okay, Rambo?" Wade laughs, real nervous-like, "You're sure you didn't lose consciousness?"

He spits a mouthful of tepid tap water into the sink, "How the fuck would I know that? Just up and ask the groom if I passed out for a couple seconds?"

"I mean, why not?"

Bullseye doesn't answer. Just grits his teeth and shuts the light off. Wade makes a big show of zipping his lips and backing off to give him some space. 

Between the low light and the quiet, both help, makes it feel less like he's got an ice-pick in his brain. Which is about as good as it's gonna get, so he starts stripping out of his suit.

Leaves it all bunched up in a pile on the bathroom floor because right about now, he doesn't  _ care _ enough to do anything else. Then, he's just in his second skin.

Still feels too tight, suffocating, so he slips outta that too. Stands in the bathroom in just his undershirt, underwear, watching his reflection in the low grainy light that makes it in through the half open door.

He drags his fingers down across his face, watching the shadows hollow out his eyes like a fucking skeleton.

"You got any mouthwash?" He shouts.

"No," Wade calls back, "But hey! I think there's vodka in the minibar!"

"I'm not gargling with vodka."

"Okay, well," he can hear Wilson pull the fridge door open, "We've got tequila,  _ and  _ scotch to choose from, too!"

He squeezes his eyes shut, kneads his fingertips into his eyelids. Tries to psych himself up for another mouthful of mediocre tap water 'cos he's not gargling with any kind of alcohol while being double teamed by a concussion  _ and a _ migraine.

After that, he wipes his face down with a washcloth. Looks kinda pale and washed out, and his eyes are playing tricks on him. Flickers of shadows dancing behind him, in the corner of his line of sight. 

Above all else, he wants to be unconscious.

So he staggers back out into their hotel room and collapses face first on the bed, curls up on his side afterwards.

"Hey, hey, no, what do you think you're doing, mister?" Wade's by his side in an instant, shaking him by the shoulder.

"Wanna sleep it off."

"A  _ concussion?"  _ He gasps, "You want to sleep off a concussion?"

Bullseye jerks away from Wade's touch, rolls over to his other side and curls up even tighter, "Why  _ not?" _

"Wow, you're gonna make me go full after school special, aren't you? Don't you know how stupid that is, B?"

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Bullseye whines, "If it hasn't killed me yet, I'm pretty sure I can risk it one more time."

"Not on my watch, kid," Wade clucks his tongue, "Doctor Deadpool, MD, is IN! Come on, we can play House! That's capital H House, mind you. We can play lowercase h house another time, I've got this  _ amazing  _ reproduction 1950s housewife-y dress back at my place."

Bullseye buries his face in the pillow and screams, loud as he can. Doesn't want to be doing this, and he'd rather be stuck with anyone else other than Wade.

"Like it or not, B, I'm gonna keep you up all night, even if it kills me!"

Bullseye sits up, 'cos he knows when he's gonna lose a fight, and scowls, "I don't know if anyone's ever told you this, but you sure know how to make a guy want to give himself a fucking DIY lobotomy."

"Aw, thanks babe, I get that a lot!"

"It's not a compliment."

"I know, I'm just trying to keep you talking so you don't fall asleep!" Wade laughs, then, his eyes light up, you can practically see the fucking lightbulb go off above his head, and he snaps his fingers, "I'VE GOT IT! We can play cards! I'll even let you win!"

"Only if you shut more of the lights off," Bullseye grits his teeth, massages his fingers against his temples, “And I’m better than you at cards, anway.”

And Wilson just gets this awful, devilish smile, “Why don’t you prove it, then?”

* * *

He gets  _ into _ it. Which is probably just what Wade was counting on, and he’d be pissed off that it was so easy to figure out  _ just _ how to keep him engaged and distracted. That is, if he hasn’t won every single game they’ve played so far.

And they’ve played  _ plenty. _ Ten rounds of go fish, four rounds of crazy eights, six rounds of war, eight rounds of rummy, plus several rounds of two person blackjack.

Wade’s shuffling the deck. Says it’s ‘cos he’s  _ convinced _ Bullseye was cheating  _ somehow,  _ but it sure as shit seems like he just  _ enjoys _ it. Honestly, Bullseye just likes how quiet he gets when he’s shuffling it so intently.

“I’d say we could move on to strip poker,” Wade grins, “But you’re already, like, halfway there.”

Still feels kinda overstimulated and prickly, which is why he’s barely dressed, but he kicks Wade’s leg, “Yeah, maybe then you’ll have a chance of winning for once!”

“I  _ told  _ you, I was gonna let you win tonight!”

But, he rubs at his eyes and realizes that the starts of sunlight are already starting to creep into the room, barely even noticed how light it was getting.

“It’s not “ _ tonight”  _ anymore, dude,” he gives a twisted little smile, head cocked to the side, “We’ve been up all night, so why don’t you try and beat me already?”

Wade’s face goes blank for about five seconds, like he’s processing what he just heard. 

Then, he jumps right up on the bed, throws his fist up in the air, damn near falls off, and shouts, “Alright, you’re  _ on!” _

Bullseye’s pretty sure he’s never gonna  _ win, _ but that’s not really the point, is it? The point is, maybe they’re an alright team after all, maybe they oughta stick together. At least, for the times like this.


End file.
